"Your schedule's too full." Riley's frown deepens as she studies my course list, the papers scattered across our usual booth at Lou's. Half-eaten fries and her barely touched milkshake sit forgotten between us. "Football practice, psychology classes, the peer support program... when are you going to sleep?"

      "Says the girl taking double art therapy courses while running a photography business." I reach for her fries, more out of habit than hunger. "Besides, I've handled worse."

      "That's not comforting." She snatches the fry from my hand, but there's no real annoyance in it. Just worry. The kind that comes from knowing someone's patterns too well. "Remember what Dr. Williams said about balance?"

      She's right. Of course she's right. But the thought of doing less, of not being enough... The old anxiety creeps in, familiar as breathing.

      "Hey." Her fingers find my cheek, pulling me back. Back to her. "I can see you spiralling. Talk to me."

      I take a deep breath. Rule number three still applies, even a year later. Sometimes I forget that honesty goes both ways.

      "I'm scared," I admit, the words sticking in my throat. "Of failing. Of letting people down. Of not being able to handle everything."

      "Good."

      I blink at her unexpected response. "Good?"

      "Yes." She leans forward, elbows on the table. The setting sun through the diner window catches on her hair, on the charcoal smudges she never quite manages to wash off. "Because that means you're being honest with yourself. With me. A year ago, you would have just smiled and pretended everything was fine until you broke."

      The truth hits hard. She's right - again. A year of therapy has taught me to recognize my patterns, but sometimes I still fall back into them. Still reach for perfect instead of real.

      "I just..." The words tangle in my throat. This part never gets easier - admitting weakness, showing fear. "What if I can't do it all?"

      "Then you do what you can." She takes my hand across the table. Her fingers are cold. "And you let me help when you need it."

      "But you'll have your own stuff. Your classes, your business, helping Emma with her portfolio..."

      "True." Her thumb traces circles on my palm, grounding me like always. "Which is why I need you to help me too. To remind me it's okay to not be okay sometimes."

      I study her face—the shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide, the tension in her jaw that says she's not sleeping well again. "You're scared too."

      She nods, no hesitation. That's new - this raw honesty between us. "Terrified. Of being apart during classes. Of not being there when you need me. Of..." Her voice catches. "Of something happening and not knowing until it's too late."

      Like her parents. The words hang between us, heavy with the memories. The real fear behind her sleepless nights.

      "That's why you made those rules, remember?" I squeeze her hand. "No running. No hiding. Complete honesty about bad days."

      "Even when we're busy with classes?"

      "Especially then." I pull her closer across the table. "We'll schedule daily check-ins. Real ones, not just 'I'm fine' texts."

      She manages a small smile. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Promise?"

      "Promise." I press my lips to her knuckles. There's paint under her nails - blue today, from the mural she's working on at the youth centre. "Besides, we'll still see each other every night."

      The apartment. Our apartment. First lease signed yesterday, keys in my pocket feeling heavier than they should.

      "About that..." She pulls out her sketchbook, flipping past drawings of stars and bridges to floor plans and design ideas. "I've been designing the space."

      Of course she has. Riley plans everything these days, her way of controlling what she can. After years of having choices taken away, she holds tight to the ones she gets to make.

      "The living room needs good natural light for my studio setup," she says, showing me detailed sketches. "And we'll need a study space that works for both of us. Maybe the alcove by the window?"

      I watch her explain the plans, her hands moving as she talks. She's got it all mapped out - where my psychology books will go, the perfect angle for her photography lighting, even a corner for her art supplies that won't get charcoal dust everywhere.

      "What about this space?" I point to a blank area in her sketch.

      "I thought maybe a reading nook? Or extra storage for your football gear?"

      "Or a darkroom." The idea hits me suddenly. "For developing your photos the old-school way, like you've been talking about."

      She stops, staring at me. "But that's... that would be permanent. Built-in plumbing, special ventilation..."

      "Yeah." I meet her eyes steadily. "Because this isn't temporary, Riley. This is home."

      She swallows hard. "You'd really let me modify the apartment like that?"

      "First of all, it's our apartment. And second..." I tap her sketches. "Your art isn't just a hobby. It's your future. Your business. Your way of helping people heal."

      The waitress brings fresh coffee, pretending not to notice when Riley wipes her eyes quickly with her sleeve.

      "Speaking of helping people heal," she says once we're alone again. "Tell me about this peer support program."

      I take a deep breath, trying to sort through all the thoughts racing in my head. "It's twice a week. Group sessions with other athletes dealing with mental health stuff. Some are still playing, some had to quit because of anxiety or depression."

      "And you're leading it?"

      "Co-leading. With Dr. Williams at first, then maybe on my own once I get some experience." My fingers drum against the coffee mug. "That's what scares me most, I think. Being responsible for other people when I'm still figuring out my own stuff."

      Riley nods. "Like how I felt when Emma first came to my art therapy group."

      "Exactly." Relief floods through me - she gets it. She always does. "How do you handle it? The responsibility?"

      "By remembering I'm not there to fix them." She steals one of my cold fries, considering. "I'm just there to show them they're not alone. To prove it's possible to be broken and healing at the same time."

      "Like you did for me."

      "Like we did for each other." She meets my eyes. "That's what makes you perfect for this program, you know. You understand both sides - the pressure to be perfect and the freedom of letting that go."

      The diner's getting busier now, the dinner crowd rolling in. Our booth feels like a bubble though, safe from the noise and chaos.

      "You know what else scares me?" I find myself saying.

      "What?"

      "How much I want this. All of it. The program, the classes, the apartment..." I gesture to her sketches. "A year ago, I couldn't imagine wanting anything this much."

      Riley's quiet for a moment, pushing her melted milkshake around with her straw. "That's part of being alive, I think. Wanting things. Making plans. Being scared but doing it anyway."

      She flips to a new page in her sketchbook, starts drawing what looks like constellations. Her hand shakes slightly.

      "The darkroom thing," she says without looking up. "Would you really be okay with that?"

      "Why wouldn't I be?"

      "Because it's permanent. Because it means really committing to this. To us." Her pencil moves faster, stars taking shape. "To building a life together instead of just surviving day to day."

       I reach for her hand, stilling her frantic drawing. "Riley. Look at me."

      She does, her eyes full of that familiar mix of hope and fear.

      "I want the darkroom. I want your art supplies everywhere and photography equipment taking up too much space. I want to build something permanent." The words come easily now. "Not because I need you to save me anymore, but because I want to build a life with you."

      "Even when it's scary?" Riley asks softly. "Even when we're both busy and stressed and unsure?"

      "Especially then." I squeeze her hands. "That's what all this is about, right? Learning to be scared and moving forward anyway. Learning to trust that we can handle things, even when they're hard."

      We spend the next few hours planning—class schedules, apartment layouts, shared dreams. It's terrifying and exciting and completely real. 

      "One more thing," I say as we're gathering our stuff. 

      "What?"

      "I choose you." The words come steady, sure. "Not because I need you to save me anymore, but because I want this future we're building. Even the scary parts. Even the hard days."

      Her eyes find mine in the light. No tears this time.

      "I choose you too," she says quietly. "Not because I have to be strong for you, but because being with you makes me want to be strong for myself."

      And maybe that's what growth looks like. Choosing each other every day. Building something real from all our broken pieces.