I almost told her the truth—that I’d spent the last three days on the couch, watching old basketball games, paralyzed by the thought of updating my résumé. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Instead, I sent a thumbs-up emoji.
That night, I stood in front of the fridge, poking at the tuna salad with a fork. It was definitely past day three. But something about eating it anyway felt… appropriate. Like I was spoiling on the inside too. Why not eat something that matched?
Just then, Peregrine came home earlier than expected. She caught me mid-sniff, bent over the bowl like a raccoon.
“You don’t need to punish yourself with questionable tuna,” she said, sighing.
I looked up, startled. “What are you talking about?”
She gently took the bowl from me and dumped it into the sink. “I know you’re struggling,” she said softly. “I’ve just been waiting for you to say it.”
I felt my face heat up. “I’m fine,” I said sharply. But my voice cracked.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying everything she’d said. How I’d hidden behind jokes and distractions instead of admitting I was stuck. At 3 a.m., I walked into her room. She was still awake, reading.
