The first thing Val noticed about full-time work was that it crept in, almost silently.
It arrived in earlier mornings and later evenings, in emails she reread two or three times before sending, in lists that multiplied instead of shrinking. It arrived in the tension that lingered in her shoulders long after she left the centre, in the way her thoughts replayed conversations while she brushed her teeth at night.
She found she liked the work. That part surprised her less than it should have.
She liked the planning meetings where ideas stacked on top of each other until something coherent emerged. She liked watching the workshops evolve, kids taking chances earlier, quieter ones offering suggestions without prompting. She liked drafting funding proposals late in the afternoon, when the building fell silent and the work felt almost sacred.
What she hadn't anticipated was how much growth demanded beyond enthusiasm.
Some days she came home drained in a way that felt new. Not the soft fatigue of a day well spent, but the sharp-edged weariness of responsibility, the kind that followed her into the kitchen, into the shower, into bed.
Elliot noticed.
He noticed the way she checked her phone while stirring pasta, the way her eyes would drift to the wall mid-conversation, focused on something invisible. He noticed their walks home had shortened, the casual pauses disappearing when she stayed late.
"You don't have to push this hard," he said one evening. Not accusatory, just careful.
Val paused, fork suspended halfway to her mouth.
"I'm not pushing," she said slowly. "I'm learning."
The distinction mattered to her more than she expected.
He nodded, but she could see him adjusting, recalibrating to a version of her that didn't slow down for comfort.
That night, she wrote in her notebook.
I didn't know it could feel like this, she scribbled.
Some days I feel like I'm standing in a doorway too narrow for who I'm becoming.
She worried she was failing at balance, at attentiveness, at simply being present. She worried that if she wasn't careful, she'd lose the parts of herself that had let Elliot feel close in the first place.
A few days later, she forgot to message him she'd be late. A meeting she hadn't been scheduled for ran longer than expected.
Her phone buzzed halfway through, Elliot's name lighting the screen.
Are you still at the centre?
Her stomach dropped. She typed back immediately:
I'm so sorry. I lost track of time.
There was a pause long enough to make her chest tighten.
It's okay, he replied.
When she got home, she expected tension. Instead, he was at the table, two plates set, the food still warming in the oven.
"I didn't want it to get cold," he said, almost apologetic.
Something tightened in her chest, not guilt, exactly, but recognition. This was the old pattern trying to reassert itself: him accommodating, her shrinking inward to apologise, to reassure.
She didn't want that anymore, not after all the progress she'd made.
"I should have told you sooner," she said. "I'm still figuring out how to manage this."
He studied her, really looked at her. "You don't have to worry about me," he said quietly.
The words landed in an unexpected way.
Val felt tears sting her eyes, not from frustration, but because something inside her loosened.
"I'm not worried," she said. "I just… don't want us to drift apart."
"You're not," he said, his voice low. "Things are… different. In a good way."
They ate dinner slowly, neither trying to fix anything, both just being honest in the small space that had opened between them.
Later, lying in bed, Elliot stared at the ceiling longer than usual.
"I think I used to feel like I was protecting something fragile," he said eventually.
Val turned toward him.
"And now?"
"Now… it feels like I'm learning how to walk beside you, instead."
She reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his.
"That's all I want," she said. "Not to be carried. Not to be held back. Just… accompanied."
The week that followed brought its own challenges.
A funding meeting that went poorly. A workshop that fell flat. Nights when Val came home and cried, not because she wanted to quit, but because caring this much hurt.
Elliot didn't rush in to fix anything. He didn't offer platitudes. He sat on the floor with her, their backs resting against the bed, and listened.
When she finished, raw and spent, he said quietly, "You don't sound like someone failing."
She let out a weak laugh. "I certainly feel like someone failing."
"That might just be what growing feels like," he said.
She rested her forehead against his shoulder, breathing him in. Comfort, yes, but not escape.
Meanwhile, the centre began to shift under her influence.
New flyers went up. New faces appeared at the doors. The local paper mentioned the upcoming showcase. The building hummed with a quiet energy it hadn't had before.
One afternoon, Val paused in the doorway, watching it all unfold. Awe curled in her chest.
I'm doing this, she thought. It's going well.
That evening, during a rare walk home, she told Elliot about the article.
He grinned, clearly pleased for her. "You should be proud."
"I am," she said. And she truly was.
They walked in silence for a stretch, the city lights glowing ahead, casting long reflections across the wet pavement.
"You know," he said finally, "I think I'm still figuring out this version of you."
She glanced at him. "Is that okay?"
"It is," he said. "It feels… bigger. Less careful. More real."
Val smiled, feeling the quiet gravity of it.
At home, she opened her notebook one last time before bed.
I'm tired, she wrote.
I'm scared sometimes. I miss things. I get it wrong.
She paused, then added:
But I am not smaller than my life anymore.
She closed the book and slid into bed beside Elliot, letting herself rest. Not because someone else was holding her steady, but because she had learned how to stand.