The rules changed that night.
Not written.Not announced.
Just… understood.
Ha-rin noticed it when I moved her bag from the chair to the shelf by the door.
"…Why there," she asked.
"So it is not visible from outside," I replied.
She looked at the door, then nodded.
"…Okay."
Her phone followed.
Face-down.Muted.
"…I should probably stop checking comments," she said.
"Yes."
"…That was too easy."
"It is easier now," I replied. "Harder later."
She accepted that without argument.
The next morning, the route changed.
No walking.
I pulled the car closer than usual, engine already running. She hesitated for half a second before getting in, then adjusted her cap lower than before.
"…This feels dramatic," she muttered.
"It is preventative," I said.
"…That sounds worse."
"It is cheaper," I replied. "Emotionally."
She huffed quietly but didn't argue.
At the clinic, we waited in the car until the lobby cleared.
She watched people come and go through the glass.
"…I used to walk through places like that without thinking," she said.
"Yes."
"…Now I count heads."
"That is awareness."
"…I don't like being aware."
"That is reasonable."
When we finally went inside, it was quick. Controlled. No pauses.
Back home, she sank onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes.
"…I feel like I'm shrinking my life," she said.
"You are narrowing exposure," I corrected.
"…Same thing."
"No," I said. "Shrinking removes options. Narrowing protects them."
She considered that.
"…You always do this," she said. "Turn something heavy into a diagram."
"Diagrams are easier to manage."
She leaned back, eyes closed.
"…How long does this last," she asked.
"Until the variables change," I replied.
"…Meaning."
"Visibility," I said. "Timing. Your decision."
She opened one eye.
"…So basically," she said, "…until I decide something big."
"Yes."
She sighed.
"…I hate that everything leads back there."
"That is because it matters."
Silence settled.
Not uncomfortable.Just… recalibrating.
Her hand rested on her stomach again, almost automatically now. She didn't comment on it. Neither did I.
"…I didn't panic today," she said suddenly.
"No."
"…I thought I would."
"You adjusted instead."
"…Is that better."
"Yes."
She smiled faintly.
"…You sound proud."
"That is not incorrect."
She opened both eyes and looked at me.
"…Don't say it like that."
"Like what."
"…Like I passed a test."
"There was no test," I said. "Only response."
She let out a small breath.
"…Okay."
Her phone buzzed once.
She didn't reach for it.
"…If I ignore it long enough," she said, "…will it stop."
"Yes," I replied. "Eventually."
"…What if it doesn't."
"Then we decide how to answer," I said. "Not when."
She nodded slowly.
"…That feels important."
"It is."
Later, she stood by the window again—but this time, the curtain stayed closed.
"…Do you ever get tired of planning," she asked.
"Yes."
"…Then why do you keep doing it."
"Because the alternative costs more," I replied.
She turned.
"…You really don't mind."
"I do mind," I said. "I simply choose the outcome."
She watched me for a moment, then smiled—small, sincere.
"…I'm glad you're here," she said.
"That is mutual."
She looked down, cheeks warming just slightly.
"…Don't make it weird."
"I will try," I replied.
She laughed quietly.
Outside, the world continued guessing.
Inside, the boundaries had shifted.
They hadn't been exposed.
But they had learned.
And learning always came with a price.