Episode 9: Seven Days
Seven days sounded generous until Coco started living inside them.
They weren't seven equal units of time. They were uneven, weighted, heavy with consequence. Each day carried a different version of her fear, a different shape of hope.
The email sat open on her laptop like a dare.
Please confirm your decision within seven days.
She closed it.
Then reopened it.
Then left it open, as if pretending not to see it might stop the countdown from moving forward.
---
Day One: The Illusion of Calm
Coco didn't tell Brian immediately.
Not because she wanted to hide it — but because saying it out loud would make it real. Seven days until something changed. Seven days until she either stayed or went, officially and irrevocably.
She met Brian that evening anyway.
They walked without direction, shoulders brushing occasionally, the contact still tentative — like they were relearning how to exist in the same emotional space.
"You're quiet," he observed.
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," he said lightly.
She smiled, then sobered. "I heard back from the program."
Brian stopped walking.
Her stomach dropped. "They approved the deferment," she said quickly. "One semester."
His relief was immediate — then cautious. "That's good."
"It gives me seven days to decide."
The number hung between them.
"Okay," Brian said. "Seven days."
He didn't celebrate. Didn't pressure.
He just accepted the reality with her.
And somehow, that scared her more than resistance would have.
---
Day Two: The Weight of Possibility
Coco spent the next day imagining two futures.
In one, she boarded a plane in six months. Started fresh. Built a life that was impressive and lonely in a way she pretended not to notice.
In the other, she stayed. Grew roots. Let love complicate her ambition.
Neither future felt wrong.
That was the problem.
She met Brian at the library that night.
They didn't work. They talked.
About books. About childhood. About who they were before expectations calcified around them.
"I was always good at leaving," Coco admitted. "I never stayed long enough to be disappointed."
Brian leaned back in his chair. "I stayed too long in places that stopped fitting."
They looked at each other.
Two people shaped by opposite fears.
---
Day Three: The Cracks
The third day was harder.
Reality intruded — as it always did.
Brian mentioned money. Logistics. Distance. The kind of details love didn't erase.
"I don't want to promise something I can't deliver," he said carefully.
Coco heard what he didn't say.
I'm afraid too.
Her chest tightened. "Do you think this is a mistake?"
Brian hesitated — just long enough to hurt.
"I think love doesn't guarantee compatibility," he said honestly.
She nodded. "And compatibility doesn't guarantee happiness."
"No," he agreed.
The silence that followed wasn't angry.
It was sobering.
That night, Coco lay awake wondering whether wanting something badly was enough reason to fight for it.
---
Day Four: Distance Inside Closeness
They spent the fourth day apart.
Not intentionally. Not dramatically.
Just… separately.
Coco went to a café alone. Brian stayed home. They texted sparingly, careful not to overwhelm each other.
The distance felt different now — chosen, not imposed.
And that made it heavier.
Brian opened the fellowship email again. Read the requirements. The expectations.
If Coco left, he could go too.
If she stayed, he might still leave.
The realization unsettled him.
Love wasn't a tether.
It was a variable.
---
Day Five: The Argument They Needed
The fifth day broke the fragile balance.
It started small.
"You're acting like this is only my decision," Coco said.
"Because it is," Brian replied.
"No," she snapped. "It affects you too."
"Yes," he said, voice rising slightly, "but I don't get to choose for you."
"You get to walk away if you don't like my choice," she shot back.
Brian flinched. "Is that what you think this is about?"
"What is it about then?" she demanded.
He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm scared that no matter what you choose, one of us will feel like we lost."
The honesty knocked the fight out of her.
"So am I," she whispered.
They stood there — raw, exposed, breathing hard.
This wasn't enemies to lovers anymore.
This was lovers learning how to survive truth.
---
Day Six: The Quiet Before
The sixth day was strangely gentle.
They cooked together. Laughed. Almost forgot the clock.
Coco rested her head on Brian's shoulder while they watched something neither of them cared about.
"This feels dangerous," she murmured.
"Why?"
"Because it feels like home."
Brian kissed her hair — soft, reverent.
"Home doesn't have to mean staying forever," he said.
She turned to look at him. "Then what does it mean?"
"It means choosing presence," he replied. "Even if the future's uncertain."
She memorized his face.
Just in case.
---
Day Seven: The Decision
Coco woke before sunrise.
The city was quiet. Still undecided.
She sat at her desk, laptop open, the email glowing softly in the dim light.
Seven days of thinking.
Seven days of loving without guarantees.
Seven days of realizing that fear didn't disappear just because love showed up.
Brian was asleep in the other room.
She watched him for a long moment.
Then she returned to the desk.
Her fingers hovered.
She thought of the girl who had always run forward, believing distance equaled growth.
She thought of the woman she was becoming — one who understood that sometimes growth meant staying and letting something challenge you.
She typed.
Thank you for the opportunity. I would like to defer for one semester.
She hit send.
---
After: The Cost of Choice
Brian woke to find her sitting on the floor, knees drawn to her chest.
He knew before she spoke.
"I stayed," she said.
He sat beside her slowly. "For now."
"Yes," she agreed. "For now."
Relief washed through him — followed immediately by responsibility.
"I don't want you to regret this," he said.
"I might," she replied honestly. "But I'll regret it knowingly."
He took her hand. "I'll make this worth the risk."
She squeezed his fingers. "Just don't promise what you can't keep."
He nodded. "Then let's promise effort."
It felt truer than forever.
---
The Final Beat
That night, Coco wrote again.
Not lists.
Not confessions.
A story about two people who chose uncertainty over safety.
Who understood that love wasn't an answer — it was a question you kept agreeing to ask.
She titled it:
Love in Every Word.
And for the first time, the words didn't hurt.
They held.