Work Text:
PART 1: PROLOGUE-- The Choice That Broke Them
Before
They were rivals first.
Always the same conferences. Always the same grants. Lena would present her research on ethical AI frameworks, and Kara would be three rows back, taking notes in margins that weren't hers. Kara would publish something brilliant about narrative bias, and Lena would find herself reading it twice. Once for the work. Once for the voice.
It started with arguments.
"Your methodology assumes rational actors," Kara said after Lena's panel on algorithmic transparency. She was leaning against the hotel bar, drink in hand, smile sharper than her critique.
"Your journalism assumes readers care about nuance," Lena shot back.
Kara laughed. Full-throated. Surprised.
"Touché."
They talked until last call. Then until sunrise in the hotel lobby, surrounded by empty coffee cups and crumpled napkins covered in diagrams. Kara drew connections between media theory and machine learning that Lena had never considered. Lena explained the philosophy behind algorithmic ethics in ways that made Kara's eyes light up.
"You should write about this," Kara said, gesturing at Lena's napkin sketches.
"You should too."
"Collaboration?"
The word hung between them like a dare.
Three months later, they were sharing hotel rooms.
Not beds. Not yet. Just space. Kara worked late, keyboard clicking against the white noise of cable news. Lena read early, highlighting papers by lamplight while Kara slept.
But there were moments.
Kara bringing coffee without being asked. The right temperature, the right amount of cream. Lena stealing Kara's newspapers, reading her margin notes like love letters.
Too optimistic here, Kara would scrawl next to op-eds about technological progress.
Evidence? she'd write beside claims about algorithmic bias.
This made me think of you, next to an article about academic partnerships changing the world.
Lena kept that newspaper. Filed it between pages of her research notebook like pressed flowers.
The first kiss happened during a deadline.
They were co-authoring a paper on AI transparency in journalism. Due in six hours. Lena was pacing, reading sentences aloud, trying to make the conclusion stronger.
"The ethical implications of algorithmic curation-"
"Too formal," Kara interrupted from the desk.
"The responsibility of platforms to-"
"Too distant."
"Then what?" Lena stopped pacing. Turned. "What would you write?"
Kara looked up from her laptop. Hair falling across her face, glasses sliding down her nose. She'd been wearing the same sweater for two days.
"I'd write," she said slowly, "that we're asking the wrong questions."
"Which is?"
"Not what should AI do. But who gets to decide."
Lena felt something shift in her chest. Not the idea itself-though it was good, brilliant even-but the way Kara said it. Like she was trusting Lena with something fragile.
"That's perfect," Lena said, and meant it.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Kara smiled. Different from her conference smile, her argument smile. Softer. More real.
Lena kissed her before she could think about it.
Kara kissed back like she'd been waiting.
They didn't talk about it after.
Just submitted the paper and went to dinner like nothing had changed. But everything had changed. The way Kara looked at her across restaurant tables. The way Lena found excuses to brush against her in crowded lecture halls.
The way they started sharing beds without discussing it.
First night: Kara fell asleep grading papers. Lena covered her with a blanket, curled up on the other side of the mattress.
Second night: They both claimed exhaustion. Lay on opposite edges like the bed might swallow them.
Third night: Lena woke up with Kara's arm across her waist, Kara's breath warm against her neck.
She didn't move until the alarm went off.
"We should probably talk about this," Kara said over breakfast.
Lena was reading her email, trying to look casual while her pulse hammered against her throat.
"About what?"
"Lena."
She looked up. Kara was watching her with that expression she got when she was about to ask a difficult question during Q&A sessions.
"What are we doing?" Kara asked.
Lena set down her phone. "I don't know."
"Do you want to know?"
"Do you?"
They stared at each other across the hotel room table. Coffee getting cold. Deadline anxiety replaced by something bigger, more dangerous.
"Yes," Kara said finally.
"Yes," Lena echoed.
They were magnetic after that.
Relentless in the way they found each other across conference halls, in the way their arguments became foreplay, in the way they couldn't seem to write anything separately anymore.
Their work got better. Sharper. They challenged each other until every paragraph sparkled, every methodology strengthened under scrutiny.
Their relationship got deeper. More dangerous.
Kara would read Lena's published work aloud in bed, voice warm with admiration and critique in equal measure.
"You're overusing semicolons again."
"I like semicolons."
"I know. It's pretentious and I love it."
Lena would steal Kara's annotated newspapers, claiming her margin notes were more insightful than the editorials themselves.
"You realize you're defacing private property."
"Sue me."
"I might. Those margins represent hours of intellectual labor."
"Send me a bill."
They fought, often. About methodology, about politics, about whose turn it was to find coffee at 6 AM. Made up just as often. Sometimes passionately, hands tangled in hair and apologies pressed against skin. Sometimes quietly, lying in parallel silence until one of them reached across the space between.
Even the silence felt full.
But underneath the brilliance and heat, something heavier stirred.
Lena's last name.
She never said it aloud, but it hung between them like smoke. At conferences, she watched professors' faces change when they read her badge. The slight pause. The recalculation. The smile that became more polite, more careful.
You're a Luthor. You'll never be just your work.
No matter how far she ran, no matter how many publications or lectures or grants she earned, the legacy clung to her like static electricity. Unavoidable. Exhausting.
"Does it bother you?" she asked Kara one night.
They were lying in the dark, post-conference wind-down, sharing a bottle of wine that had cost too much for their stipends.
"Does what bother me?"
"My name."
Kara was quiet for so long Lena thought she'd fallen asleep.
"Your name," Kara said finally, "is the least interesting thing about you."
"But it's the first thing people see."
"Then they're not looking hard enough."
Lena wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that merit and brilliance could outweigh legacy and whispers. But she'd watched too many doors open for others that remained closed for her. Heard too many conversations die when she entered the room.
And institutions-well, they smiled politely while weighing the optics.
The Stanford letter arrived on a Tuesday.
Lena was grading papers in their shared office space-a coffee shop near campus with good wifi and terrible music. Kara was across the table, typing rapidly on her laptop, chasing some story about municipal corruption that had her attention for the week.
The email appeared in Lena's inbox like a bomb with a delayed fuse.
Subject: Stanford University-Tenure Track Position
Her chest tightened before she read past the header.
This was it. The dream. Their dream.
They'd talked about it in half-jokes and whispered plans. Stanford, together, building a lab and a newsroom that changed the world. Kara's journalism expertise combined with Lena's AI research. They'd revolutionize how news was gathered, verified, distributed.
But the email wasn't addressed to them.
Just her.
Lena's hands shook as she opened the attachment. Skimmed the formal language until she found the heart of it: We are pleased to offer you a position as Assistant Professor in our Computer Science Department, with a joint appointment in our Graduate School of Journalism...
She read it twice. Three times.
Tried to ignore the part of her brain already calculating: This might be your only chance. Your family name means this could be the only real offer you ever get.
Kara looked up from her laptop. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," Lena said quickly, closing the email. "Just spam."
But her phone buzzed with calendar notifications. Her mind was already racing ahead to reference checks, to negotiations, to the weight of saying yes to something that felt like survival disguised as success.
She didn't ask Kara if she'd gotten an offer too.
That was the first mistake.
Three days of sleepless nights.
Three days of Lena rehearsing conversations she couldn't seem to start.
Kara, did you hear from Stanford?
Kara, what if they only want one of us?
Kara, what if my name is the only reason they want me?
But every time she opened her mouth, the words dissolved. Because asking meant facing the possibility that Kara hadn't been offered anything. And if that were true, if Lena took the position, she'd be the woman who chose her career over her heart.
Again.
The Luthor legacy wasn't just about corporate villainy. It was about a family history of putting power before people, ambition before love. Lena had spent her entire adult life trying to prove she was different.
But here she was, staring at an opportunity that felt like destiny and terror in equal measure.
On Thursday night, she made her choice.
She clicked Reply.
Dear Dr. Chen, I am delighted to accept your offer...
Friday morning.
Kara walked into their kitchen holding two mugs-one for her, one for Lena, both chipped from too many moves between conference cities and temporary housing. Steam rose from the coffee like incense.
Lena was already dressed. Already armored in her best blazer and the resolve she'd built over seventy-two hours of rehearsal.
"I accepted Stanford," she said.
Blunt. Braced for impact.
Kara blinked.
A heartbeat. Then two.
The mugs didn't shake in her hands, but something in her face shifted. Like she was recalculating everything she thought she knew about this morning, this conversation, this life they'd been building.
"You... accepted it?"
Lena nodded, eyes fixed on a crack in the kitchen tile that she'd never noticed before. Hairline fracture running from the cabinet to the center of the room.
"I thought we were still deciding," Kara said quietly. "Together."
"I had to." The words came out too quickly, too defensive. "You know how it is for me. This... this might be the only real offer I ever get."
There was a silence that wasn't empty at all-just full of things Kara wasn't saying yet. Things that felt dangerous and important and too late to matter.
Lena forced herself to look up.
Kara was standing very still, holding both mugs like anchors. Her face was carefully neutral in the way it got when she was interviewing difficult sources. Professional. Distant.
"I already got the offer, Lena," she said finally. "Weeks ago."
The world tilted.
"What?"
"Weeks ago," Kara repeated. "I told Cat I'd only take it if you were given the same position. Both of us or neither."
Lena felt the floor disappear beneath her feet. "You... what?"
"I chose us," Kara said. No anger in her voice. Just hurt, deep and quiet and irreversible. "I thought you would too."
The coffee mugs were still steaming. Lena could smell the French roast Kara always bought, the one that cost too much but tasted like mornings they'd shared in a dozen different cities. Normal things. Domestic things.
Everything felt surreal.
"I didn't know," Lena whispered.
"You didn't ask."
"I thought-"
"You assumed." Kara's voice was soft but firm. "You assumed I hadn't been offered anything. You assumed your name made this your only shot. You assumed I wouldn't choose you."
Lena tried to speak. To explain. To take it back somehow.
But Kara was already setting the mugs down on the counter. Already stepping back.
"I needed you to believe in us," she said. "Not just in the version of your future where I fit into your shadow."
"Kara, please-"
"I can't do this again, Lena."
"What do you mean again?"
"I mean watching you choose everything else over me and calling it practical." Kara's voice cracked slightly. "I mean being the person you love until something better comes along."
"That's not-"
"Isn't it?"
Lena wanted to argue. Wanted to explain about legacy and pressure and the weight of carrying a name that opened and closed doors in equal measure. Wanted to tell Kara about the sleepless nights and the fear that this opportunity would disappear if she hesitated too long.
But the words felt hollow even in her own mind.
Because at the end of it all, she hadn't trusted Kara enough to ask. Hadn't trusted their relationship enough to choose it first.
"I can call them back," Lena said desperately. "I can explain. We can both-"
"No." Kara shook her head. "You can't undo this, Lena. You made your choice. And now we both have to live with it."
She moved toward the door, grabbing her jacket from the back of a chair.
"Where are you going?"
"Away." Kara paused with her hand on the doorknob. "I need to think."
"For how long?"
"I don't know."
The door closed with a soft click that felt louder than slamming.
Lena stood in the kitchen long after the sound of Kara's car disappeared down the street.
The coffee was still warm in the mugs. Still smelled like mornings and possibility and everything she'd just destroyed.
She picked up Kara's mug-the blue one with the chip near the handle from when they'd moved too hastily out of their Boston sublet. Brought it to her lips and tasted bitter perfection.
Kara had made it exactly the way Lena liked it. Two sugars, splash of cream. Even in the middle of heartbreak, even while processing betrayal, she'd made the coffee right.
I chose us, she'd said.
I thought you would too.
The Stanford offer letter was still open on Lena's laptop. Glowing cursor blinking after her signature in the acceptance email she'd sent three days ago.
She closed the laptop without reading it again.
Outside, it started to rain.
Kara didn't come back that night.
Or the next night.
On Sunday, Lena found a note on the kitchen counter, written in Kara's precise handwriting on the back of a coffee shop receipt.
I'm staying at Sam's for a while. I need space to figure out what comes next.
Take care of yourself.
K
No love. No xoxo. No little drawing of a heart like she used to leave on Post-it notes stuck to Lena's laptop.
Just K.
Lena kept the note anyway. Pressed it between the pages of her research notebook, next to the newspaper clipping from their early days when Kara had written This made me think of you in the margins.
Evidence of before. Proof that this had been real, even if it was over.
Two weeks later, Kara's things were gone.
Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just... absent.
Her toothbrush disappeared from the bathroom. Her coffee mug vanished from the dish rack. The stack of newspapers she kept by her side of the bed evaporated like morning fog.
Lena came home from a faculty meeting to find empty spaces where Kara used to be. Negative space in the shape of a life that had moved on.
There was another note on the pillow.
I'm taking the assignment in South Sudan. Leaving next week.
The lease is paid through August. After that, it's yours.
I hope Stanford is everything you wanted.
K
Lena googled South Sudan.
Conflict zones. War correspondence. The kind of dangerous, important journalism that Kara had always talked about with reverence and longing.
The kind of assignment that could make a career.
Or end one.
She closed her laptop and tried not to think about Kara in a place where people shot at journalists for telling the truth.
The last time she saw Kara was by accident.
Lena was leaving campus after her first day of orientation meetings. Walking across the quad with her arms full of faculty handbooks and parking permits and all the bureaucratic detritus of starting a new job.
She looked up and there was Kara, fifty feet away, loading a duffel bag into the back of a taxi.
Airport taxi, probably. South Sudan flight.
Lena stopped walking.
Kara looked up as if she could feel being watched. Their eyes met across the distance.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Kara raised her hand. Just slightly. Not a wave, exactly. More like acknowledgment. Recognition of shared history and separate futures.
Lena raised her hand back.
The taxi pulled away.
That was the last time she saw Kara for nine years.
The apartment felt cavernous after that.
Lena tried rearranging furniture to fill the empty spaces. Bought new mugs to replace the chipped ones. Subscribed to digital newspapers instead of keeping physical copies around.
But at night, lying alone in their bed-her bed now-she could still smell Kara's shampoo on the spare pillow. Could still hear the phantom sound of typing from across the room.
She kept the pillow for three months before finally washing it.
Even then, she imagined traces lingering.
Stanford was everything she'd wanted.
State-of-the-art lab. Brilliant colleagues. Research funding that let her pursue the intersection of AI and journalism with the kind of resources she'd only dreamed about.
She published papers. Won grants. Built the kind of reputation that made people forget to whisper about her last name.
But late at night, when the lab was empty and the campus was quiet, she'd find herself wondering what their joint research might have produced. What kinds of questions they might have asked together. What kinds of answers they might have found.
She never stopped reading Kara's work.
Every article. Every investigation. Every award announcement.
Watching from a distance as Kara's star rose in the journalism world, bright and fast and completely unreachable.
This made me think of you, she'd whisper sometimes, reading Kara's latest piece.
But there was no one there to hear.
PART 2-The Ghost of You
Year One
The first article appeared in The Washington Post six months after Kara left.
Lena wasn't looking for it. She was grading undergraduate papers on a Sunday afternoon, laptop balanced on her knees, when she clicked through to an article about media literacy that one of her students had cited.
By Kara Danvers.
The byline hit her like a physical blow.
She should have closed the browser. Should have focused on the student's analysis of algorithmic bias in social media platforms. Should have done anything except click through to Kara's author page.
But she clicked anyway.
Kara Danvers is a freelance journalist currently reporting from conflict zones in East Africa. Her work focuses on the intersection of technology and humanitarian crises.
Currently reporting.
Present tense.
Still in South Sudan, then. Still choosing dangerous stories in dangerous places.
Lena scrolled through the article list. Pieces about refugee camps using solar-powered internet to maintain connections with family. Investigations into how WhatsApp messages were being used to coordinate aid distribution. Stories that married Kara's old interests in technology with something harder, more immediate.
Stories that showed traces of their old conversations, their shared fascination with how information moved through systems and people.
But the writing was different. Sharper. Less optimistic.
The Kara who had written about municipal corruption with fascinated indignation had evolved into someone who documented human suffering with clinical precision. Still brilliant. Still incisive. But carrying a weight that hadn't been there before.
Lena read every article twice.
Found herself taking notes in the margins of her own copy, like she used to do with Kara's newspapers. Evidence here needs verification. This connection to the broader policy implications is smart. This paragraph made me cry.
She never sent the notes.
Year Two
The Pulitzer nomination was announced on a Tuesday.
Lena saw it first on Twitter, in a retweet from someone she'd forgotten she followed. Congratulations to @KaraDanvers on her Pulitzer nomination for International Reporting.
She clicked through to the official announcement. Read Kara's name among a list of accomplished journalists whose work had shaped global conversations about war, politics, human rights.
The nominated series was about child soldiers in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Five articles that traced how conflict minerals in smartphones connected American consumers to violence thousands of miles away.
Lena read the entire series in one sitting.
It was devastating. Meticulous. The kind of journalism that changed policy and saved lives and made readers reconsider their relationship with their own devices.
It was also the work of someone who had seen things that couldn't be unseen. Written by hands that had held evidence of atrocities, by eyes that had witnessed trauma most people only read about in headlines.
Lena tried to imagine Kara in those places. Kara with her easy laugh and her stubborn optimism, walking through refugee camps and interviewing families torn apart by violence.
Tried to imagine what it cost to hold those stories. To carry them back to hotel rooms with unreliable internet and write them into existence for audiences who would read them over morning coffee and forget them by lunch.
The series ended with a profile of a fifteen-year-old girl who had escaped forced recruitment and was learning to code in a camp school powered by donated solar panels.
Amara says she wants to build apps that help people like her tell their own stories, Kara had written. She believes technology can be a tool for healing instead of harm. At fifteen, in a refugee camp, with everything stolen from her except hope, she still believes in the possibility of building something better.
I wish I had her faith.
That last line stayed with Lena for weeks.
I wish I had her faith.
Not the voice of the woman who used to argue with Lena about the potential for AI to revolutionize democratic participation. Not the person who had once stayed up until 3 AM redesigning their presentation because she thought they could explain algorithmic transparency in a way that would actually matter to people.
This was someone who had lost something essential. Someone who documented hope in others because she couldn't locate it in herself anymore.
Lena found herself wondering if some of that loss was her fault.
Year Three
The Pulitzer win was announced on a Monday.
Lena was in a faculty meeting about curriculum changes when her phone buzzed with news alerts. She glanced down at the screen under the conference table and saw Kara's name.
2023 Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting: Kara Danvers, for her series "The Price of Connection: Technology, Conflict, and Hope in the Democratic Republic of Congo."
Her hands shook slightly as she turned the phone face down.
"Dr. Luthor? Your thoughts on the proposed machine learning requirement?"
Lena looked up to find eight colleagues staring at her expectantly. She had no idea what question she was supposed to be answering.
"Could you repeat the question?"
After the meeting, she locked herself in her office and googled Kara Danvers Pulitzer Prize.
Photos from the ceremony. Kara in a black dress that Lena had never seen, hair shorter than she used to wear it, smiling for cameras with an expression that looked practiced rather than genuine.
She was beautiful. Successful. Acclaimed.
She looked lonely.
In one photo, Kara was standing with other winners, holding her award. Everyone else was laughing at something off-camera. Kara was looking slightly to the left, as if her attention had been caught by something in the distance. Something sad.
Lena stared at that photo for twenty minutes.
Tried to reconcile this woman-polished, celebrated, fundamentally isolated-looking-with the person who used to steal her coffee in the mornings and read her draft papers aloud in bed and argue with her about semicolon usage like it was a matter of life and death.
That night, she drafted an email.
Kara,
I saw the news about the Pulitzer. Congratulations. The series was extraordinary-important work that needed telling. I'm proud of you.
I hope you're well.
Lena
She read it seventeen times before deleting it.
What right did she have to pride? What right did she have to hope for Kara's wellness?
She was the reason Kara was documenting trauma in war zones instead of building something beautiful together in California.
Year Four
The relationship rumors started innocuously.
Lena was eating lunch in the faculty dining room, half-listening to colleagues discuss their summer research plans, when someone mentioned seeing Kara Danvers on a late-night talk show.
"She was talking about her new book," Professor Chen said. "Something about technology and conflict zones. But the host kept asking about her personal life."
"Did she say anything?" Dr. Martinez asked.
"Not really. Very private. Though there have been photos of her with that tech entrepreneur-what's her name? The one who founded that refugee aid app?"
Lena's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
"Andrea Rojas," someone else supplied. "They've been seen together at several events. Very glamorous couple."
"Makes sense," Chen nodded. "Both brilliant, both committed to humanitarian work. Though Danvers seemed uncomfortable with the personal questions on the show."
Lena finished her salad without tasting it.
That evening, she found herself googling Kara Danvers Andrea Rojas.
Photos from charity galas. The two of them at a table together, Kara listening intently while Andrea gestured with wine glass in hand. More photos from a tech conference panel about crisis communication, Andrea's hand on Kara's arm as they walked off stage.
They looked good together. Both successful, both beautiful, both committed to work that mattered.
They looked like the kind of couple that made sense on paper.
In one photo, taken at what appeared to be a book launch party, Andrea was leaning close to say something in Kara's ear. Kara was smiling, but it was that same practiced smile from the Pulitzer ceremony. Camera-ready but not quite reaching her eyes.
Lena closed her laptop and tried not to think about what Kara's real smile used to look like. Tried not to remember the difference between her public face and her private one.
Tried not to wonder if Andrea Rojas had ever seen the real version.
Year Five
The book was published in September.
The Human Cost of Connection: Technology, Conflict, and the Stories We Don't Tell.
Lena ordered it the day it came out.
Told herself it was professional interest. Research. A way to stay current with work at the intersection of technology and journalism.
But when the package arrived, she held it for a full minute before opening it. Traced Kara's name on the cover with her fingertip.
The dedication was simple: For those who bear witness.
No personal acknowledgments. No To A, who makes everything possible or For my family or any of the intimate dedications that usually appeared in books by people who had someone to thank.
Just For those who bear witness.
Professional. Distant. Safe.
Lena read the book in two days.
It was brilliant, devastating, necessary. Kara had woven together stories from five years of conflict reporting with analysis of how social media platforms, communication technologies, and information systems shaped modern warfare.
But threading through the academic analysis and journalistic reporting was something more personal. A meditation on what it cost to witness trauma. What it meant to be responsible for translating suffering into stories that distant audiences could understand.
What it did to a person to carry that weight.
The hardest part, Kara had written, is not the danger or the travel or the technical challenges of filing stories from places without reliable internet. The hardest part is coming home to a world that has moved on while you were documenting atrocities. The hardest part is explaining to people at dinner parties why their complaints about their phone battery dying feel obscene when you've just returned from interviewing families whose children were killed for the minerals in those same phones.
The hardest part is learning to live with the knowledge that human cruelty is systematic, that technological progress often comes at the cost of human dignity, and that most people who have the power to change these systems simply don't want to know.
The hardest part is realizing that witnessing suffering, even with the intent to create change, can make you forget how to witness joy.
Lena read that passage three times.
Recognized in it the voice of someone who had been carrying unbearable knowledge alone for too long. Someone who had traded optimism for accuracy, hope for truth.
Someone who had forgotten how to believe in the possibility of building something better.
She thought about Kara at nineteen, arguing with professors about the potential for technology to democratize information. Kara at twenty-five, staying up all night to redesign presentations because she believed they could explain complex ideas in ways that would actually matter.
Kara at twenty-eight, making coffee for both of them even in the middle of heartbreak.
This book was written by someone who had lost access to that version of herself.
Lena wondered, again, how much of that loss was her fault.
Year Six
The breakup was announced via absence.
Not officially. There was no press release, no social media statement, no dramatic revelation.
Just the gradual disappearance of Andrea Rojas from Kara's public appearances.
Lena noticed because she had developed the habit of checking. Not obsessively-or not more obsessively than checking any other news source. Just occasional googling when insomnia struck or when faculty meetings ran long and she needed distraction.
But where there had been photos of Kara and Andrea at conferences and galas, now there were just photos of Kara alone. Still beautiful, still accomplished, still carrying that practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes.
A few months later, a gossip blog-the kind Lena would never admit to reading-ran a blind item about a tech entrepreneur and a journalist who had ended their relationship because of "irreconcilable differences about the future."
She wanted traditional stability, the item claimed. Kids, marriage, a base in San Francisco. She wanted to keep chasing stories in dangerous places. Neither was willing to compromise.
Lena told herself she felt no satisfaction about this development.
Told herself she had no right to feel anything at all about Kara's personal life.
But late that night, she found herself wondering if Kara was okay. If she had people to talk to. If she was taking care of herself in all the ways she used to be terrible at-eating regular meals, getting enough sleep, remembering to call her foster parents on their birthdays.
She drafted another email and deleted it before typing more than Kara's name.
Year Seven
The war photography exhibition opened in New York in March.
Lena saw the review in The New York Times Arts section. "Bearing Witness: The Human Cost of Information Warfare" features photographs and reporting from conflict zones around the world, including work by Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Kara Danvers.
The review was glowing. Called Kara's contributions "haunting and essential" and praised her ability to "find humanity in the midst of systematic dehumanization."
But what caught Lena's attention was a quote from Kara in the article:
"I started this work believing that bearing witness could create change," Danvers said at the exhibition opening. "That documenting suffering could prevent future suffering. Five years later, I'm not sure that's true. But I keep doing it because the alternative-looking away-feels like complicity."
When asked what she hoped viewers would take from the exhibition, Danvers paused for a long moment before answering: "I hope they'll understand that every choice has consequences. That what we decide to pay attention to, and what we decide to ignore, shapes the world we live in."
"I hope they'll choose more carefully than I did."
Lena read that quote sitting in her office at Stanford, surrounded by papers about algorithmic bias and AI ethics and all the theoretical frameworks she'd built her career on.
I hope they'll choose more carefully than I did.
She wondered what choices Kara was referring to. The choice to pursue dangerous stories in dangerous places? The choice to document trauma instead of building something hopeful?
Or the choice to leave Lena in that kitchen nine years ago, both coffee mugs still warm, both futures still possible?
Year Eight
The teaching position was announced in December.
Lena almost missed it. A small item in the Stanford Daily about visiting faculty for the spring semester. Guest lecturers, temporary appointments, the kind of academic news that usually held no interest for her.
But there it was, buried in the middle of a list: Kara Danvers, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, will teach a seminar on conflict reporting and digital media ethics.
Lena read the announcement seven times.
Kara was coming to Stanford.
Kara was going to be three buildings away from Lena's office, teaching in the same journalism program where Lena held her joint appointment.
Kara was going to be here.
The rational part of Lena's mind immediately began calculating avoidance strategies. Different routes to her office. Alternate times for faculty meetings. Ways to minimize the possibility of accidental encounters.
But another part of her-a part she'd been trying to silence for nine years-began imagining possibilities. Chance meetings in coffee shops. Professional collaborations that might rebuild bridges. Conversations that might lead to understanding, forgiveness, maybe even friendship.
She spent the winter break researching Kara's recent work.
Told herself it was professional due diligence. If they were going to be colleagues, even temporarily, she should be familiar with Kara's current projects.
But really, she was trying to map the geography of who Kara had become. Trying to understand the woman who would walk onto Stanford's campus in January.
The woman who had written: I hope they'll choose more carefully than I did.
January
The first time Lena saw her was from a distance.
She was walking across the main quad after a committee meeting, distracted by email on her phone, when she looked up and stopped breathing.
Kara was sitting on a bench near the journalism building, grading papers or reviewing notes. Same focused expression she'd always gotten when working. Same habit of tucking her hair behind her ear when concentrating.
But everything else was different.
Her hair was shorter, more professional. Her clothes were expensive-looking, well-tailored, the kind of wardrobe that spoke of success and media appearances and book advance money.
She looked older, obviously. Nine years older. But it wasn't just time-it was experience. Weight. The accumulated cost of carrying difficult stories.
She looked like someone who had seen too much.
Lena stood frozen on the pathway, fifty yards away, debating whether to approach. Whether to wave. Whether to pretend she hadn't seen and walk quickly in the opposite direction.
While she debated, Kara looked up from her papers. Glanced around the quad with the alertness of someone accustomed to being aware of her surroundings. War zone habits, probably. Always knowing the exits, always cataloging potential threats.
Their eyes met across the distance.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Kara's expression was unreadable. Not hostile, but not warm either. Just... careful. Guarded in a way she never used to be.
Lena raised her hand slightly. Not quite a wave, more like acknowledgment.
Kara nodded back. Once. Polite. Professional.
The greeting of colleagues who had never shared coffee mugs and morning newspapers and beds in hotel rooms across three continents.
Then Kara looked back down at her papers, and Lena continued walking toward her car.
But for the rest of the drive home, she couldn't stop thinking about Kara's expression. The careful neutrality of it. The way it seemed to require effort, as if warmth was something that had to be consciously constructed rather than naturally felt.
As if happiness was a language Kara had forgotten how to speak.
February
The second encounter was in the faculty coffee shop.
Lena was ordering her usual-large coffee, two sugars, splash of cream-when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
"Medium coffee, black."
She turned. Kara was standing in line, wearing a dark sweater and jeans, looking like she'd been working late. She had papers sticking out of her bag and ink stains on her fingers.
"Lena." Kara's voice was neutral. Polite.
"Kara." Lena stepped aside to wait for her order. "How are you finding Stanford so far?"
"Good. The students are sharp. Engaged." Kara moved to stand beside her, maintaining careful distance. "Your AI ethics course came up in discussion yesterday. One of my students is taking it."
"Oh? What did they say?"
"That you're a hard grader but fair. That you make them think differently about technology."
Lena felt an unexpected flush of pride at the indirect compliment. "That's the goal."
They stood in awkward silence while the barista prepared their drinks. Lena found herself cataloging details: Kara still took her coffee black. Still had the habit of shifting her weight from foot to foot when standing still. Still smelled faintly of the same shampoo she'd used nine years ago.
Some things didn't change.
"Dr. Luthor? Large coffee?"
Lena accepted her drink, grateful for the distraction. When she looked back, Kara was watching her with an expression that might have been curiosity.
"Medium black?"
"That's me." Kara took her coffee, wrapped both hands around the cup like she was cold. "Thanks."
They walked toward the exit together, pace carefully matched, distance carefully maintained.
"Well," Lena said when they reached the door. "I should let you get back to grading."
"Right. Me too."
Another pause. Another moment of awkward calculation about how to end this interaction.
"It's good to see you, Kara."
The words slipped out before Lena could stop them. More honest than she'd intended.
Kara's expression flickered. Something unguarded passed across her face-surprise, maybe, or recognition, or pain-before the careful neutrality returned.
"You too," she said quietly.
Then she was walking away, and Lena was standing in the doorway holding coffee that tasted like memory and possibility and all the things she'd lost the right to want.
March
The overheard conversation happened by accident.
Lena was in her office, door slightly ajar, when voices in the hallway caught her attention. She recognized Kara's voice immediately, along with that of one of the journalism graduate students-Maya something, who was working on a thesis about social media and political movements.
"The paper is well-researched," Kara was saying, "but your conclusions are too optimistic. Too fluffy."
"Fluffy?" Maya sounded defensive.
"You're writing about social media activism like it's inherently democratizing. Like connection equals empowerment. But you're not grappling with the darker implications-the way these same platforms can be weaponized, the way hope can be manufactured and manipulated."
Lena found herself leaning closer to the door, drawn by something sharp and tired in Kara's voice.
"But the Arab Spring-" Maya began.
"The Arab Spring was a decade ago," Kara interrupted. "What have we learned since then? How have these platforms evolved? How have they been used to spread misinformation, to facilitate genocide, to undermine the very democratic processes you're celebrating?"
"So you think social media activism is pointless?"
A long pause. Lena could picture Kara's expression-the one she used to get when trying to explain something complicated to first-year students.
"I think hope without analysis is dangerous," Kara said finally. "I think believing that technology will save us is naive. And I think your paper would be stronger if you acknowledged that progress isn't inevitable-it's a choice that has to be made over and over again, by people who understand the full cost of their decisions."
"That sounds pretty cynical, Professor Danvers."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Maybe it is," Kara said. "Maybe that's what happens when you spend enough time documenting what people do to each other when they think no one is watching."
The voices began to fade as they moved down the hallway. Lena heard Maya ask something about office hours, heard Kara respond with practical details about scheduling and deadlines.
But the conversation stayed with Lena for the rest of the day.
Hope without analysis is dangerous.
Maybe that's what happens when you spend enough time documenting what people do to each other.
This was not the woman who had once argued with her about the democratic potential of algorithmic transparency. Not the person who had stayed up until 3 AM working on presentations because she believed they could explain complex ideas in ways that would create positive change.
This was someone who had traded hope for accuracy. Someone who had learned to see the worst in human nature and had begun to assume it was the most honest perspective.
Someone who had forgotten how to believe in the possibility of building something better.
Lena thought about their old arguments-the way Kara used to push back against Lena's pessimism about institutional change, the way she'd insist that journalism could be a force for accountability and justice.
You're too cynical, Kara used to say. People want to do the right thing. They just need better information.
Now Kara was the one warning students against naive optimism. Now she was the one cataloging the ways that hope could be weaponized.
What had happened to change her so fundamentally?
April
The rain started during the faculty mixer.
It was one of those awkward academic social events that Lena usually avoided, but this one was specifically for visiting scholars and she'd felt obligated to attend. Show support for the journalism program. Be collegial.
She was making polite conversation with a professor from the education school when she noticed Kara across the room, surrounded by a small group of graduate students who were hanging on her every word.
"...the challenge isn't getting access to sources," Kara was saying. "It's maintaining emotional distance while still honoring their humanity. You have to care enough to tell the story accurately, but not so much that you can't function."
One of the students asked something Lena couldn't hear.
"Therapy helps," Kara replied. "Sleep when you can. Don't read the comments on your articles. And remember that your job is to witness and record, not to fix everything that's broken."
Another question.
"Yes, it changes you," Kara said quietly. "Anyone who tells you it doesn't is lying. The question is whether you can live with the person you become."
Lena found herself moving closer, drawn by something raw in Kara's voice.
"But why keep doing it?" another student asked. "If it's so damaging?"
Kara was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible over the party conversation around them.
"Because someone has to bear witness," she said. "Because the alternative-looking away-is worse than the cost of seeing."
The students nodded seriously, clearly impressed by Kara's gravitas and experience.
But Lena heard something else in her voice. Something exhausted and brittle and alone.
The party was winding down when Lena worked up the courage to approach.
"Kara?"
She turned, and Lena was struck again by how carefully controlled her expressions had become. How much effort seemed to go into basic social interaction.
"Lena. Hi."
"I heard part of your conversation with the students. It sounded like good advice."
"They're idealistic. It's important they understand what they're signing up for."
They were standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the quad. Outside, rain was beginning to fall in heavy drops that splattered against the glass.
"You seem..." Lena searched for the right word. "Different. From how you used to be."
Kara's laugh was sharp, bitter. "Nine years of war zones will do that."
"Is that what did it? The war zones?"
Kara looked at her directly for the first time all evening. Really looked, like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
"What do you think did it, Lena?"
The question hung between them like a challenge. Like an accusation.
Lena felt the weight of nine years' worth of unasked questions, unspoken apologies, unexamined guilt.
"I think," she said carefully, "that a lot of things probably contributed to the change."
"That's a very diplomatic answer."
"What would you prefer I say?"
Kara was quiet for a moment, watching the rain streak down the windows. When she spoke, her voice was soft but clear.
"I'd prefer you to be honest."
"About what?"
"About what you think happened to make me so different. About whether you think that difference is entirely due to external circumstances, or whether some of it might be..." She paused, seemed to reconsider her words. "Never mind."
"No, please. Whether some of it might be what?"
Kara turned away from the window, began walking toward the exit. Lena followed, sensing this conversation was ending whether she wanted it to or not.
They reached the door just as the rain intensified, creating a wall of water between the building and the parking lot.
"Whether some of it might be what, Kara?"
Kara stopped walking. Stood very still for a moment, looking out at the rain.
Then she turned to face Lena directly, and for the first time all evening, her careful composure cracked slightly.
"Whether some of it might be because the last time I believed in something completely, trusted someone completely, chose love over everything else completely..." She paused, took a breath. "It destroyed me."
The words hit Lena like a physical blow.
"Kara-"
"You asked what happened to make me different," Kara continued, her voice gaining strength. "You asked what happened to make me cynical. What happened to make me warn students against naive hope."
She stepped closer, close enough that Lena could see the rain reflected in her eyes.
"You happened, Lena."
Then she pushed through the door and walked out into the storm, leaving Lena standing in the doorway watching her disappear into the rain.
That Night
Lena sat in her car for twenty minutes before starting the engine.
You happened.
The words echoed in her mind like a judgment. Like a truth she'd been avoiding for nine years.
She'd known, intellectually, that her choice had hurt Kara. Had cost them both the future they'd planned together. But she'd told herself it was temporary damage. That Kara would heal, move on, build a different kind of successful life.
She'd never considered that the damage might be permanent. That her single choice-her failure to trust, to ask, to choose love first-might have fundamentally altered who Kara was capable of becoming.
The rain pounded against her windshield as she finally drove home, windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the storm.
You happened.
Nine years of war zones and trauma and broken relationships and carefully controlled expressions that never quite reached her eyes.
Nine years of documenting the worst of human nature until she'd forgotten how to believe in the best of it.
Nine years of carrying the knowledge that the person she'd trusted most completely had chosen ambition over love when the stakes were highest.
You happened.
Lena parked in her driveway and sat in the dark, listening to rain drum against the roof of her car.
For the first time since that morning in the kitchen with the coffee mugs and the letter from Stanford, she allowed herself to fully understand what she had cost them both.
Not just their relationship. Not just their shared future.
But Kara's ability to hope. Her capacity for trust. Her fundamental faith that love could be chosen over fear, that people could be counted on to choose each other when it mattered most.
You happened.
Lena closed her eyes and finally, finally, began to comprehend the true price of the choice she'd made nine years ago.
And the weight of all the choices she'd failed to make since.
PART 3-Between Us, the Ashes
May
The email arrived on a Wednesday morning.
Subject: Research collaboration opportunity?
Lena,
I've been thinking about your work on algorithmic bias in news curation. There might be overlap with a project I'm developing on misinformation in conflict zones. Would you be interested in discussing over coffee?
Best, Kara
Lena stared at the message for five full minutes.
It was professional. Polite. The kind of email colleagues sent each other every day about potential collaborations and shared research interests.
It was also the first time Kara had initiated contact since their confrontation in the rain three weeks ago.
Lena typed and deleted seven different responses before settling on:
Kara,
I'd be very interested in hearing more about your project. I have time Thursday afternoon if that works for you.
Lena
They met at the faculty coffee shop-neutral territory, public enough to feel safe, familiar enough to feel comfortable.
Kara was already there when Lena arrived, sitting at a corner table with her laptop open and a notebook covered in her precise handwriting. She looked up when Lena approached, offered a small smile that seemed genuine rather than practiced.
"Thanks for meeting me," Kara said, closing her laptop. "I wasn't sure you'd want to after..." She gestured vaguely, indicating their last conversation.
"After you told me I was responsible for your cynicism?" Lena sat down across from her, keeping her tone light. "I've heard worse feedback on my life choices."
Kara's smile became slightly more real. "Have you really?"
"Well, no. But I'm trying to be gracious about it."
Something flickered in Kara's expression-surprise, maybe, or recognition of the humor that had once been a cornerstone of their dynamic.
"I owe you an apology," Kara said. "That wasn't fair. Or entirely accurate."
"Wasn't it?"
"It was reductive. You weren't the only factor that changed me. And blaming you for my professional choices..." She shook her head. "That was easier than taking responsibility for them myself."
Lena ordered coffee-large, two sugars, splash of cream-and listened while Kara explained her project. Something about tracking how misinformation spread through social networks during conflicts, the ways that false narratives could escalate violence or undermine peace processes.
It was fascinating work. Important work. The kind of research that married Kara's field experience with rigorous academic analysis.
The kind of project they might have developed together, in another timeline.
"Where does my algorithmic bias research fit?" Lena asked.
"The curation algorithms on major platforms aren't neutral," Kara said, leaning forward slightly. "They amplify certain types of content, suppress others. During conflicts, that can mean the difference between accurate reporting reaching audiences and inflammatory misinformation going viral."
"You want to map the bias patterns."
"Exactly. Understand how platform algorithms interact with human psychological biases to create information cascades that can literally kill people."
Lena felt the familiar spark of intellectual excitement. This was the intersection of technology and real-world impact that had always fascinated her. The place where abstract algorithms met human consequences.
"It's brilliant," she said. "Ambitious, but brilliant."
Kara's smile was unguarded for a moment. "You think so?"
"I think it could change how we understand the role of technology in modern conflicts. I think it could influence platform policy in ways that actually matter."
"That's optimistic of you."
"Maybe you're not the only one who's changed over the years."
They talked for two hours.
Not just about the research, though that was the nominal focus. They talked about methodology and data collection and the challenges of getting platforms to share information about their algorithms.
But they also talked about Stanford, about teaching, about the strange experience of being back in academic environments after years in the field.
"Do you miss it?" Lena asked. "The field work?"
Kara was quiet for a moment, stirring her coffee even though she'd finished adding sugar minutes ago.
"I miss the clarity," she said finally. "In conflict zones, the stakes are obvious. Life and death, truth and lies, justice and corruption. Here, everything feels more... theoretical."
"Theory can have real-world impact too."
"Can it? I've been reading academic papers for months, preparing for this semester. So much brilliant analysis that goes nowhere. So many insights that never leave the ivory tower."
"That's why this project matters," Lena said. "You're not just analyzing-you're building something that could actually change how information moves through the world."
Kara looked at her directly then, and for a moment, Lena saw a flash of the old Kara. The one who used to get excited about the possibility of using research to solve real problems.
"We could build something that could change how information moves through the world," Kara corrected quietly.
"Are you asking me to collaborate?"
"I'm asking if you want to."
Lena felt something shift in her chest. Dangerous territory. The kind of professional entanglement that could easily become personal entanglement.
But the research was important. And working with Kara again, even in this careful professional capacity, felt like a gift she wasn't sure she deserved.
"Yes," she said. "I want to."
June
Working together was easier than either of them had expected.
They met twice a week in Lena's office-Kara's was smaller and shared with another visiting faculty member. They spread papers across Lena's conference table, built diagrams on her whiteboard, argued about methodology with the intensity they'd once brought to everything.
The arguments were different now. More careful, more professional. They both seemed conscious of boundaries that hadn't existed before.
But the intellectual chemistry was still there. The way Kara could see connections that Lena missed, the way Lena could spot flaws in reasoning that Kara overlooked. The way they could build on each other's ideas until they arrived at insights neither would have reached alone.
"The Facebook algorithm prioritizes engagement," Lena said during their third meeting, pointing to data on her laptop screen. "But engagement during conflicts often means anger, fear, outrage. So the algorithm inadvertently amplifies the most inflammatory content."
"Which creates feedback loops," Kara added, drawing connections on the whiteboard. "More engagement means more amplification means more extreme content means more engagement. Until reasonable voices get drowned out entirely."
"And once that happens, the platform becomes a weapon for whoever can generate the most outrage."
"Exactly." Kara capped her marker, surveyed their diagram. "The question is whether this is fixable through policy changes or whether it's inherent to the business model."
They worked well together. Efficiently. With the kind of easy collaboration that usually took years to develop.
It felt familiar and strange simultaneously. Like speaking a language they'd both forgotten they knew fluently.
After the fourth meeting, Kara lingered while Lena packed up her laptop.
"This reminds me of the paper we wrote about AI transparency," she said quietly. "That deadline crisis when we figured out the argument at the last minute."
"You mean when you figured out the argument. I was just pacing and panicking."
"You were processing. You always paced when you were thinking."
The casual reference to old intimacy hung between them for a moment. Acknowledgment of shared history, shared knowledge about each other's work habits and thinking patterns.
"Do I still do that?" Lena asked. "Pace when I'm thinking?"
Kara's smile was soft, unguarded. "Every meeting. You did it twenty minutes ago when we were discussing the methodology section."
"I didn't realize."
"Some things don't change."
Lena felt heat rise in her cheeks. Something about the way Kara was looking at her-gentle, familiar, almost fond-felt dangerous. Like they were approaching territory that should remain off-limits.
"I should get going," Lena said, slinging her laptop bag over her shoulder. "Faculty dinner tonight."
"Right. Of course."
They walked toward the door together. Kara paused with her hand on the doorframe.
"This has been good," she said. "Working together again. I'd forgotten how..."
"How what?"
"How easy it is. How natural."
Lena felt something flutter in her chest. Warning bells and possibility in equal measure.
"It is," she agreed. "Natural."
Kara nodded, then stepped into the hallway. "Same time Thursday?"
"Same time Thursday."
After Kara left, Lena sat in her empty office for ten minutes, trying to identify the feeling spreading through her chest.
It took her longer than it should have to recognize it as hope.
July
The coffee ritual started accidentally.
Kara arrived for their Thursday meeting carrying two cups from the faculty coffee shop. Set one in front of Lena without comment, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Large coffee. Two sugars. Splash of cream.
Exactly how Lena had ordered it every time they'd gotten coffee together over the past two months.
"Thank you," Lena said, surprised by how moved she felt by the small gesture.
"You always forget to get coffee before our meetings," Kara replied. "And you're useless when you're under-caffeinated."
The casual familiarity of it-the knowledge of Lena's coffee preferences, the comfortable insult disguised as affection-felt both wonderful and terrifying.
The next week, Kara brought coffee again.
And the week after that.
It became routine. Kara would arrive five minutes early with two cups, set them on the table like an offering, and they would work for two hours surrounded by the aroma of perfectly prepared coffee and the comfortable silence of shared focus.
"You don't have to keep buying me coffee," Lena said after the fourth week.
"I know."
"So why do you?"
Kara looked up from the data she was reviewing, seemed to consider the question seriously.
"Because you get that little smile when I bring it," she said finally. "The surprised one, like you can't believe someone remembered your order. It's..." She paused, seemed to search for the right word. "Nice. It's nice to do something that makes you smile like that."
Lena felt her cheeks warm. "I don't-"
"You do. Every time. Like it's still a surprise that someone would think about what you want and just... provide it."
There was something in Kara's voice-gentle, almost protective-that made Lena's chest tight.
"Maybe it is still a surprise," she said quietly.
Kara's expression softened. "That's sad, Lena."
"Is it?"
"You should be surrounded by people who think about what you want. Who notice what makes you happy and try to provide it."
"Should I?"
"Yes. Everyone should."
They looked at each other across the conference table, surrounded by research papers and data printouts and all the professional scaffolding they'd built around this collaboration.
But underneath all of that, something more personal was pulsing. Something that felt like care, like attention, like the kind of thoughtfulness that had nothing to do with academic research and everything to do with the simple human desire to make someone else's day slightly better.
"Is that what you do?" Lena asked. "Notice what makes people happy and try to provide it?"
"Not usually," Kara admitted. "I'm not very good at... domestic kindness anymore. Taking care of people in small ways. But with you..." She shrugged, looked down at her notes. "Old habits, I guess."
Old habits.
As if caring for Lena was muscle memory. As if nine years of separation hadn't completely erased the impulse to pay attention to her needs and try to meet them.
"Kara-"
"We should focus on the research," Kara said quickly, effectively closing down the conversation. "I want to show you something interesting I found in the Syria data."
Lena let her change the subject.
But for the rest of the meeting, she found herself cataloging small gestures. The way Kara handed her printouts with the text facing the right direction. The way she automatically moved the whiteboard markers closer to Lena's side of the table. The way she seemed to notice when Lena was struggling with a concept and offered clarification without being asked.
Small things. Professional courtesies that could be explained away as good collaboration practices.
But they felt like care. Like attention. Like someone who was still learning how to be thoughtful toward her, even after all this time.
August
The conference invitation arrived via email from Dr. Martinez in the journalism department.
The Center for Digital Journalism Ethics is hosting a symposium next month on technology and conflict reporting. Would you and Professor Danvers be interested in presenting your preliminary findings?
Lena forwarded the email to Kara with a simple note: Thoughts?
Kara's response came back within an hour: Could be good for the project. And for your tenure review.
They met the next day to discuss the presentation structure. What data to include, how to frame their argument, which preliminary conclusions were strong enough to share publicly.
"We should probably practice," Kara said as they wrapped up their planning session. "Make sure the timing works, that our sections flow together smoothly."
"Good idea. When?"
"This weekend? Saturday afternoon?"
Lena hesitated. Weekend meetings felt different than their regular Thursday sessions. More casual, more personal. Less protected by the structure of the academic week.
But the presentation was important. And practicing together made professional sense.
"Saturday works," she said. "My office?"
"Actually, would you mind coming to my place? I have a better setup for presentations. Larger monitor, more space to move around."
Lena felt something flutter in her chest. Kara's place. Personal space, private territory. The kind of invitation that could mean nothing or everything.
"Sure," she said, trying to sound casual. "What time?"
"Two o'clock? I'll make lunch."
I'll make lunch.
Definitely personal territory now.
Kara's apartment was smaller than Lena had expected. Temporary housing, clearly-university-provided furniture, minimal decoration, the kind of space that belonged to someone passing through rather than settling down.
But there were personal touches scattered throughout. Framed photos from her reporting trips. A bookshelf filled with journalism texts and novels in multiple languages. A coffee table covered with newspapers from around the world, margins filled with Kara's careful annotations.
"This is nice," Lena said, accepting a glass of water. "Cozy."
"It's temporary," Kara replied. "I haven't really settled anywhere since..."
She didn't finish the sentence, but Lena understood. Since she'd started moving between conflict zones. Since she'd begun building a life that was fundamentally portable.
Since she'd stopped believing in the possibility of putting down roots.
They worked on the presentation for three hours. Refined their argument, practiced transitions, timed each section until it flowed smoothly.
It was good work. Important work. The kind of collaboration that felt significant beyond its immediate academic value.
But what struck Lena most was how comfortable she felt in Kara's space. How natural it seemed to be working together on Kara's couch, papers spread across her coffee table, laptops balanced on their knees.
How much it felt like the old days, when they used to work together in hotel rooms and shared apartments and coffee shops across three continents.
"I think we're ready," Kara said after their final run-through.
"I think so too."
They packed up their materials, cleaned coffee cups off the table, restored the apartment to its original order.
"Thanks for hosting," Lena said at the door. "And for lunch. It was really good."
"Thanks for coming here. It was easier than trying to juggle everything in your office."
They stood in the doorway for a moment, neither quite ready to end the afternoon.
"This has been good," Kara said finally. "The collaboration. The research. All of it."
"It has."
"I'd forgotten how much I missed it. Working with someone who understands how I think."
Lena felt her pulse quicken. "Kara..."
"I know," Kara said quickly. "I know we're keeping this professional. I know there are boundaries. I'm not trying to-I just wanted to say that this has been good. Important."
"For me too."
They looked at each other for a long moment. Something charged and careful passed between them. Recognition of chemistry, acknowledgment of history, mutual awareness that they were walking very close to lines that probably shouldn't be crossed.
"I should go," Lena said.
"Right. Of course."
But neither of them moved.
"See you Thursday?" Kara asked.
"See you Thursday."
Lena walked to her car slowly, hyperaware of Kara watching from the doorway. When she reached the street, she turned back to wave goodbye.
Kara was still standing there, silhouetted against the light from her apartment, hand raised in response.
The image stayed with Lena for the rest of the weekend. Kara framed in her doorway, looking somehow both settled and temporary, both familiar and changed.
Looking like someone who might be learning how to let people into her space again.
September
The presentation went perfectly.
Their timing was flawless, their argument compelling, their data convincing. The Q&A session generated the kind of engaged academic discussion that indicated real interest in their work.
Afterward, during the reception, they were approached by colleagues, graduate students, and administrators who wanted to know more about their research.
"Fascinating work," Dr. Chen from Computer Science said. "I'd love to explore some collaboration opportunities."
"The methodology is brilliant," a visiting professor from Berkeley added. "Have you considered expanding the scope to include other social media platforms?"
They fielded questions together, finishing each other's explanations, building on each other's responses with the ease of people who had worked together for years rather than months.
"You two make a good team," Dr. Martinez observed when they finally had a moment alone. "Very complementary skill sets."
"Thank you," Lena replied. "The project has been..."
"Productive," Kara supplied.
"Yes. Very productive."
Dr. Martinez smiled knowingly. "I'm sure it has been. Well, congratulations on excellent work. I hope you'll consider developing this into a larger study."
After he walked away, Kara turned to Lena with raised eyebrows.
"Did that sound like innuendo to you?"
"A little bit," Lena admitted. "The 'complementary skill sets' comment was definitely loaded."
"And the way he said 'I'm sure it has been' about our productivity."
"Very suggestive."
They looked at each other and started laughing. The kind of shared amusement that felt natural, unguarded, like they'd never spent nine years learning how to be careful around each other.
"Do you think people are talking?" Lena asked.
"About our research?"
"About us."
Kara's expression became more serious. "What would they be saying?"
"That we seem... close. For colleagues who just started working together."
"Are we close?"
The question hung between them like a challenge. Like an invitation to define something that had been carefully left undefined.
"I don't know," Lena said honestly. "What do you think?"
"I think," Kara said slowly, "that we work well together. I think we understand each other. I think there's... history there that makes the collaboration feel familiar."
"History."
"Yes."
"Is that all it is?"
Kara was quiet for a long moment, watching the reception crowd mill around them.
"I don't know," she said finally. "What else would it be?"
Before Lena could answer, they were interrupted by a graduate student with questions about their data collection methods. The moment passed, the conversation shifted back to professional territory.
But the question lingered: What else would it be?
October
The dating started casually.
Lena didn't hear about it directly. She pieced it together from overheard conversations and social media glimpses and the careful way Kara began scheduling their meetings around other commitments.
"I can't do Thursday this week," Kara said after their presentation follow-up meeting. "How about Wednesday?"
"Wednesday works. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, just... social plans."
Social plans.
Lena tried not to read too much into the phrase. Tried not to wonder what kind of social plans required rescheduling their weekly collaboration.
But two weeks later, she saw Kara at a campus restaurant with a woman she didn't recognize. Tall, blonde, animated in her conversation. Someone who could make Kara laugh in a way that looked genuine rather than polite.
Lena ducked out before they could see her.
"How's the research going?" Dr. Martinez asked during a chance encounter in the faculty mailroom.
"Very well. We're making good progress on the data analysis."
"And how are you finding collaboration with Professor Danvers? I know her reputation can be a bit... intense."
"Intense?"
"Brilliant, obviously. But focused. Single-minded. I heard she turned down a dinner invitation from the dean because she was 'too busy for social obligations.'" He chuckled. "Though I suppose everyone needs some downtime. I saw her at Café Venetia last week with a lovely young woman. Good for her."
Lena nodded neutrally, tried to ignore the twist of something uncomfortable in her stomach.
Good for her.
Of course it was good for Kara to be dating. To be building connections, finding companionship, learning how to let people into her life again.
Of course it was.
The fact that it bothered Lena was her own problem to solve.
"Professor Luthor?" A graduate student appeared at her elbow. "Sorry to interrupt, but do you have a moment to discuss my thesis proposal?"
"Of course," Lena said, grateful for the distraction.
But for the rest of the day, she couldn't stop thinking about Kara laughing with the blonde woman. Couldn't stop wondering if this was what moving on looked like-careful, tentative steps toward trusting someone new.
Couldn't stop wondering if she had any right to feel anything about it at all.
November
The dinner party invitation came from Dr. Chen.
Small gathering at my place Saturday evening. Faculty and a few graduate students. Nothing formal, just good conversation and wine. Hope you can join us.
Lena almost declined. Faculty parties were usually stilted affairs full of academic small talk and professional networking disguised as social interaction.
But she'd been working too much lately, spending too many evenings alone in her office or her apartment. A little forced socialization might be good for her.
She arrived at Dr. Chen's house to find about twenty people scattered throughout the living room and kitchen. The usual mix of professors, postdocs, and advanced graduate students that comprised Stanford's academic social scene.
She was accepting a glass of wine from her host when she spotted Kara across the room, deep in conversation with two journalism students.
And standing next to her, one hand resting casually on Kara's arm, was the blonde woman from the restaurant.
Of course.
Lena took a large sip of wine and tried to look interested in Dr. Chen's explanation of his latest research project.
"...the applications for autonomous vehicles could be game-changing, but the ethical implications are staggering..."
She nodded at appropriate intervals, made encouraging noises, tried not to watch Kara and her... girlfriend? Date? Companion?
"Lena!"
She turned to find Maya, the journalism graduate student who'd been working with Kara, approaching with obvious excitement.
"I didn't know you'd be here. Have you met Sam yet? Sam Morrison-she's a documentary filmmaker. She and Professor Danvers have been working on a project together."
Working on a project together.
So it wasn't entirely personal, then. Though the way Sam was standing close to Kara, the casual intimacy of her hand on Kara's arm, suggested it wasn't entirely professional either.
"I don't think we've been introduced," Lena said politely.
Maya beamed, clearly delighted to facilitate introductions. "Sam, this is Professor Luthor-she's the one I was telling you about, the AI ethics expert who's collaborating with Professor Danvers."
Sam turned toward them, and Lena got her first good look at Kara's... whatever she was.
Beautiful, obviously. Probably in her early thirties, with intelligent eyes and the kind of confident bearing that spoke of professional success. She was wearing a simple black dress that probably cost more than Lena's monthly grocery budget.
"Professor Luthor," Sam said warmly, extending her hand. "I've heard wonderful things about your research. Kara speaks very highly of your collaboration."
"Thank you. And please, call me Lena."
"Sam." Her handshake was firm, confident. "I understand you two are working on something related to misinformation in conflict zones?"
"Among other things, yes."
"Fascinating. My documentary work focuses on media representation of humanitarian crises, so there's definitely overlap with what you're exploring."
She was intelligent, articulate, genuinely interested in the research. The kind of person who could hold her own in academic conversations while bringing a practitioner's perspective to theoretical discussions.
The kind of person who would complement Kara's work perfectly.
"What kind of project are you and Kara working on?" Lena asked, trying to sound casually interested rather than pointedly curious.
"A short film about how social media algorithms affect crisis reporting. Kara's providing the journalism expertise, I'm handling the visual storytelling. It's still in early stages, but I think it could be quite powerful."
"It sounds like it."
"You should join us sometime. I'd love to hear your perspective on the algorithmic bias angle."
"That's very kind of you."
Maya excused herself to refresh her drink, leaving Lena and Sam standing together in slightly awkward social space.
"Kara told me you two have history," Sam said after a moment.
The comment caught Lena off guard. "She did?"
"Academic history," Sam clarified quickly. "That you collaborated years ago, before she went into field reporting. She said working with you again has been... meaningful."
Meaningful.
"It's been productive," Lena said carefully. "We work well together."
"That's clear. I've never seen her so energized about a research project. Usually she's more interested in the practical applications than the theoretical framework, but this collaboration seems to have rekindled her interest in academic work."
There was something in Sam's tone-not quite jealousy, but definitely awareness. Recognition that whatever was happening between Lena and Kara in their professional collaboration carried emotional weight that extended beyond pure academic interest.
"Kara's always been passionate about her work," Lena said.
"Yes, but this is different. More personal, somehow. Like the research connects to something deeper for her."
Before Lena could figure out how to respond to that, Kara appeared at Sam's elbow.
"Lena," she said, seeming genuinely pleased to see her. "I didn't know you were coming tonight."
"Last-minute decision."
"I'm glad you're here. Have you two been introduced?"
"Yes," Sam said, slipping her arm through Kara's in a gesture that was both casual and possessive. "We were just talking about your collaboration. I was telling Lena she should join us for a filming session sometime."
Kara's eyes flicked between them, clearly trying to assess the subtext of their conversation.
"That could be interesting," she said carefully. "Cross-pollination of ideas."
"Exactly," Sam agreed. "The more perspectives, the better."
They stood in a triangle of polite academic conversation, each of them clearly aware of undercurrents that couldn't be directly addressed.
Lena was aware of Kara's proximity, the way she looked in her dark green dress, the subtle perfume she'd started wearing that was different from what Lena remembered.
Sam was aware of the way Kara's attention seemed divided, how her focus kept shifting between the woman she'd arrived with and the colleague she was making careful small talk with.
Kara was aware of both of them being aware, of the strange social mathematics of introducing your... whatever Sam was... to your former... whatever Lena had been.
"I should say hello to Dr. Chen," Lena said finally, recognizing the need to break the tension. "Thank him for including me."
"Of course," Kara said. "I'll see you Thursday? For our regular meeting?"
"Thursday. Yes."
Lena walked away feeling unsettled in ways she couldn't quite articulate.
It wasn't jealousy, exactly. She had no claim on Kara, no right to feel territorial about her personal relationships.
But watching Kara with Sam-seeing how carefully attentive she was, how she seemed to be working at being present and engaged-highlighted something that had been nagging at the edges of Lena's consciousness for months.
Their collaboration felt like more than professional partnership. Their coffee ritual, their easy banter, their intellectual intimacy-it all felt like the building blocks of relationship, even though neither of them had named it as such.
But if Kara was dating Sam, if she was directing her romantic energy elsewhere, then what exactly was their collaboration?
What was Lena to her?
What were they building together, if not toward something more than academic partnership?
December
The question crystallized during their last meeting before winter break.
They were wrapping up their analysis of the Syria data, preparing for a conference presentation in January, when Kara mentioned her holiday plans.
"I'll be in DC for a week," she said, packing her laptop into her bag. "Sam has some meetings with potential funders for our documentary project."
Sam has meetings.
Our documentary project.
The casual intimacy of shared travel plans, collaborative creative work that extended beyond the university.
"That sounds productive," Lena said.
"I hope so. The project is important to both of us."
Both of them.
Lena felt something settle in her chest. Not jealousy-or not only jealousy-but recognition. Clarity about what she'd been unable to name for months.
Working with Kara felt like relationship because it was the closest thing to relationship she had in her life. Their collaboration had become the primary source of intellectual intimacy, emotional connection, meaningful interaction with another person who truly understood her.
But for Kara, it was professional partnership. Important, valued, but fundamentally separate from the personal connections she was building elsewhere.
With Sam.
"Have a good trip," Lena said. "Safe travels."
"Thanks. I'll see you in January for the conference prep?"
"Of course."
After Kara left, Lena sat in her empty office for a long time.
Outside, December rain streaked down the windows, and the campus was mostly deserted as students and faculty departed for winter break.
She thought about the past eight months. The careful rebuilding of trust, the gradual thawing of old tensions, the way working together had begun to feel like the most natural thing in the world.
She thought about coffee rituals and intellectual intimacy and the way Kara's presence had become a fixed point in her week, something to anticipate and plan around.
She thought about Sam's arm linked through Kara's, the documentary project they were building together, the trip to DC that suggested planning for a shared future.
And she realized that somewhere in the process of rebuilding professional collaboration, she had begun to hope for something more.
Had begun to imagine that the careful attention, the thoughtful gestures, the easy intimacy of their work together might be building toward the possibility of trying again.
But Kara was building her personal life elsewhere. With someone new, someone who hadn't broken her trust, someone who could receive her carefully rebuilt capacity for emotional connection without the baggage of old betrayals.
Lena closed her laptop and turned off the lights in her office.
For the first time in months, she felt lonely.
Christmas Eve
The text message arrived while Lena was grading final papers.
Merry Christmas Eve. Hope you're having a peaceful holiday.
From Kara.
Lena stared at the message for a long time. They didn't text casually. Their communication was almost entirely professional-emails about meeting times, shared documents about research, occasional questions about data analysis.
This was personal. Friendly. The kind of message you send to someone you're thinking about.
She typed several responses and deleted them all.
Merry Christmas to you too. Enjoy DC.
Simple. Reciprocal. Appropriately distant.
Kara's response came twenty minutes later.
Actually in Midvale visiting my foster parents. DC trip got postponed.
How's the family time?
Good. Weird being back in my childhood bedroom, but good. They're proud of the Stanford appointment.
They should be. It's a significant achievement.
Thanks. How are you spending the holiday?
Lena looked around her apartment. Chinese takeout containers on the coffee table, stacks of papers to grade, a bottle of wine she'd opened to make the grading process more tolerable.
Quietly. Catching up on work.
On Christmas Eve? That's sad even by academic standards.
Is it?
Yes. You should be with people who care about you.
Should I?
Everyone should. Especially on holidays.
Lena felt something tight in her chest. The same sensation she'd had when Kara brought her coffee, when she'd said Lena should be surrounded by people who notice what makes her happy.
What if there aren't many people who care about you?
The message felt too honest the moment she sent it. Too revealing.
Kara's response took longer this time.
Then you should find some. Life's too short to spend holidays alone.
Is that what you've done? Found people who care about you?
I'm trying to.
Good. You deserve that.
So do you, Lena.
The conversation felt dangerous. Too personal, too intimate for whatever their relationship actually was.
I should let you get back to your family time.
Right. Of course.
Thanks for thinking of me.
Always.
Lena set her phone aside and tried to focus on the papers she was grading.
But the word stayed with her: Always.
Always thinking of her. Despite everything that had happened between them, despite the new relationships and professional boundaries and careful distance they maintained.
Always.
She finished grading at midnight, poured herself another glass of wine, and sat by
PART 4-Wanting the Impossible
January
The conference presentation went better than expected.
Their research on algorithmic amplification in conflict zones generated the kind of buzz that academic careers were built on-follow-up questions from major journals, interest from policy organizations, invitations to present at larger symposiums.
"This could be groundbreaking," Dr. Martinez said after their panel. "Have you considered submitting to Nature? The interdisciplinary angle is exactly what they're looking for."
Lena and Kara exchanged glances across the hotel lobby where they'd been cornered by enthusiastic colleagues.
"We should discuss next steps," Kara said diplomatically. "Make sure we're aligned on how to develop this further."
They escaped to the hotel bar an hour later, finally alone after a day of presentations and networking and carefully professional collaboration in front of academic audiences.
"Nature," Lena said, sliding into a booth across from Kara. "That's not a small suggestion."
"No, it's not." Kara was turning her wine glass in careful circles, studying the deep red liquid like it might contain answers to questions she hadn't asked yet. "Publishing there would change both our careers."
"Is that what you want? Career change?"
"I don't know. Is it what you want?"
They looked at each other across the small table. The hotel bar was dimly lit, filled with other conference attendees having similar conversations about research directions and professional futures. But their corner felt isolated, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with the physical space.
"I want to keep working together," Lena said carefully. "The research is important. And we're good at it."
"We are good at it."
"But you're only here for one semester. Your visiting appointment ends in May."
"It does."
"So what happens then?"
Kara was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful, measured.
"I've been offered an extension. Through next academic year."
Lena felt something leap in her chest. "That's wonderful."
"Is it?"
"Isn't it? More time for the research, more time to develop the findings into something significant."
"More time," Kara repeated. "Yes."
There was something in her tone-uncertainty, maybe, or reservation-that made Lena study her more closely.
"You don't sound excited about the extension."
"I'm considering it."
"Considering it? It's a great opportunity."
"It's also complicated."
"How is it complicated?"
Kara set down her wine glass, leaned back in the booth. "Because staying means committing to something. Building something. And I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
"Building what?"
"A life here. Relationships. Roots." She paused. "Working with you long-term."
The words hit Lena like a challenge. Like an invitation to say something she wasn't sure she was ready to say.
"Would that be so terrible? Working with me long-term?"
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
Kara was quiet for so long that Lena began to think she wouldn't answer.
"I meant that working with you is..." She searched for words. "Comfortable. Easy. It feels like coming home to something I didn't realize I'd lost."
Lena's pulse quickened. "That sounds like a good thing."
"Does it?"
"Doesn't it?"
"I'm not sure. I spent years learning how to live without that feeling. Learning how to be self-sufficient, independent, comfortable with temporary arrangements and professional distance."
"And now?"
"Now I remember what it felt like to work with someone who understood me completely. To have intellectual partnership that felt like... more than partnership."
Lena felt heat rise in her cheeks. "Kara..."
"I know we're not... I know this is professional. I know you're not suggesting anything beyond collaboration. But spending time with you again, building something together again-it makes me want things I'm not sure I should want."
The confession hung between them like a live wire. Dangerous, electric, impossible to ignore.
"What kinds of things?" Lena asked quietly.
"You know what kinds of things."
They looked at each other across the table. The hotel bar suddenly felt too small, too public for the conversation they were approaching.
"Maybe we should go somewhere else," Lena said. "Somewhere we can talk privately."
"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this at all."
"Why not?"
"Because talking about it makes it real. And if it's real, then I have to figure out what to do about it."
"And you don't want to figure that out?"
"I don't know if I can figure that out."
Lena reached across the table, covered Kara's hand with her own. The contact was electric-first intentional touch in nine years that wasn't a professional handshake or accidental brush of fingers.
"Kara, what are we doing?"
Kara stared down at their joined hands. "I don't know."
"Because it feels like more than professional collaboration."
"I know."
"It feels like we're rebuilding something."
"I know."
"But you're also dating Sam."
Kara's hand tensed under hers. "Sam and I... that's not serious. It's casual. Companionship."
"Is it?"
"Yes. She knows that. We both know that."
"But you're building a documentary project together. You went to DC together."
"Professional collaboration. Like what we're doing."
"Is it like what we're doing?"
Kara looked up then, met Lena's eyes directly. "No. It's not like what we're doing."
"Then what are we doing, Kara?"
The question seemed to echo in the space between them. Too big, too loaded, too dangerous for a hotel bar on a Thursday night at an academic conference.
"I don't know," Kara said again. "I honestly don't know."
Lena pulled her hand back, immediately missing the warmth of contact.
"I think," she said carefully, "that we should figure it out."
"Should we?"
"Because if this is just professional collaboration, then I can adjust my expectations accordingly. But if it's something else..."
"If it's something else, then what?"
"Then maybe we should acknowledge that. And decide what we want to do about it."
Kara was quiet for a long time, studying Lena's face like she was trying to solve a puzzle that had too many missing pieces.
"What do you want to do about it?" she asked finally.
The question felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. One honest answer could change everything between them-or destroy the careful professional relationship they'd built over the past eight months.
"I want to try again," Lena said. "I want to see if we can build something real this time."
Kara's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her posture. A slight withdrawal, a careful recalibration.
"Lena..."
"I know it's complicated. I know there's history. I know I broke your trust and it took you years to rebuild your capacity for relationships."
"It's not about trust."
"Isn't it?"
"It's about..." Kara struggled with words. "It's about not knowing how to want something like that anymore. Not knowing how to believe in the possibility of building something permanent with another person."
"You don't have to believe in it immediately. We could start small. See what develops."
"Start small how?"
"I don't know. Dating. Spending time together outside of work. Seeing if the connection we had is still there underneath all the professional scaffolding."
Kara was quiet again. When she spoke, her voice was soft but firm.
"I can't promise you anything, Lena. I can't promise that I'm capable of building what you want to build."
"I'm not asking for promises."
"Aren't you?"
"I'm asking for honesty. And willingness to try."
"And if I try and it doesn't work? If I can't access whatever part of me used to be able to love someone completely?"
The question broke Lena's heart a little. The idea that Kara might have lost the capacity for deep emotional connection, that years of trauma and professional distance might have damaged something essential in her.
"Then we figure that out together," she said. "But we can't figure anything out if we keep pretending this is just professional collaboration."
Kara finished her wine in one long swallow, set the glass down with careful precision.
"I need to think about this."
"Okay."
"I need time to think about what I want. What I'm capable of. What would be fair to both of us."
"How much time?"
"I don't know. Some time."
Lena felt disappointment settle in her chest, but she nodded. "Okay. Take the time you need."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, we keep working together. We finish the research. We don't let this conversation change our professional relationship."
"Can we do that?"
"I think so. Can you?"
Kara's smile was sad, uncertain. "I'll try."
They left the bar separately, Lena heading to her room while Kara stayed to finish another drink. But as Lena waited for the elevator, she felt a strange mixture of hope and terror.
She'd said the thing that couldn't be unsaid. Put the possibility on the table that had been circling around them for months.
Now all she could do was wait to see what Kara would decide to do with it.
February
The waiting was excruciating.
Their professional collaboration continued exactly as before. Thursday meetings, coffee rituals, shared research that generated exciting results and academic recognition.
But underneath the normal rhythms of their work, something had shifted. Kara was more careful now, more aware of boundaries. She still brought coffee, still engaged in their old intellectual banter, but there was a new layer of consciousness about every interaction.
As if she was constantly asking herself: Is this professional collaboration or something more?
Lena tried not to pressure her. Tried not to read meaning into every gesture, every pause, every moment of extended eye contact.
But the uncertainty was wearing on her.
"You seem distracted lately," Dr. Martinez observed after a faculty meeting. "Everything okay with the research?"
"The research is fine. Better than fine. We're making excellent progress."
"Good. And Professor Danvers? How is she adjusting to the extended appointment?"
Lena felt her stomach clench. "Extended appointment?"
"She accepted the offer to stay through next year. I thought you knew-aren't you collaborating with her?"
"Yes, but she hadn't mentioned..." Lena trailed off, realizing how that might sound. "I mean, she'd mentioned it was a possibility."
"Well, it's official now. The department is thrilled to have her long-term. Especially given the success of your joint research."
Lena nodded, made appropriate responses, but her mind was racing.
Kara had accepted the extension. Committed to staying at Stanford for another year. Made a decision about her future without mentioning it to Lena.
What did that mean for their collaboration? For the conversation they'd had at the conference? For the possibility she'd put on the table that Kara was still allegedly considering?
That afternoon, she knocked on Kara's office door during her posted office hours.
"Lena." Kara looked up from student papers, seemed surprised to see her. "We don't have a meeting scheduled today."
"I know. I wanted to ask you about something."
"Come in."
Lena closed the door behind her, sat in the chair across from Kara's desk-the same setup they'd had countless times over the past year, but now charged with unspoken tension.
"Dr. Martinez mentioned that you accepted the extension. Congratulations."
Kara's expression was carefully neutral. "Thank you."
"You didn't mention it."
"I was going to. I just signed the paperwork yesterday."
"But you'd decided before that. You'd been thinking about it."
"Yes."
"For how long?"
Kara set down her pen, leaned back in her chair. "Why does it matter?"
"Because we had a conversation three weeks ago about what we're doing. About whether this is just professional collaboration or something more. And now you've made a major decision about your future without telling me."
"Those things aren't necessarily connected."
"Aren't they? You're staying at Stanford for another year. That affects our research collaboration. It affects whatever else might develop between us."
"I accepted the extension because it's good for my career. Because the research is important. Because I like teaching here."
"Not because of us?"
"There is no us, Lena. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
The words stung, even though they were technically true.
"But there could be. That's what we were discussing."
"That's what you were discussing. I was listening."
"And?"
"And I'm still listening. Still thinking."
"For three weeks? How long do you need to think about whether you want to try dating me?"
Kara's expression hardened slightly. "As long as I need. This isn't just about dating you, Lena. This is about whether I'm capable of being in a relationship with anyone. Whether I want to try. Whether it's fair to you for me to try when I'm not sure I can succeed."
"That's not your decision to make for me. Whether it's fair."
"Isn't it? If I know I'm emotionally unavailable, if I know I've lost the ability to connect deeply with another person, shouldn't I spare you that disappointment?"
"You haven't lost the ability to connect. I've seen you connect with me over the past year."
"Professional connection. Intellectual connection. That's different."
"Is it? Because it doesn't feel different to me."
Kara was quiet for a moment, studying Lena's face.
"Maybe that's the problem," she said finally. "Maybe you're seeing emotional intimacy where there's only professional collaboration. Maybe I'm not capable of giving you what you think you're getting from me."
The suggestion felt like a slap. "You think I'm imagining the connection between us?"
"I think you might be seeing what you want to see."
"And what do you see?"
"I see two people who work well together. Who have history and chemistry and shared interests. But I don't know if that's enough to build a relationship on."
"It's more than most people start with."
"Is it? Or is it just familiarity? Nostalgia for what we used to have?"
Lena felt frustration rising in her chest. "So what are you saying? That you've decided against trying?"
"I'm saying I don't know what I've decided yet."
"After three weeks of thinking about it."
"Three weeks isn't very long when you're trying to figure out whether you're capable of loving someone."
The word hung between them like a challenge. Love.
Neither of them had used it before now. It felt too big, too loaded, too dangerous for their careful professional relationship.
But there it was. The thing they were really talking about underneath all the discussion of dating and trying and professional collaboration.
Whether they could love each other again. Whether they could trust each other with that vulnerability again.
Whether they wanted to.
"Is that what this is about?" Lena asked quietly. "Love?"
"I don't know. What do you think it's about?"
"I think it's about whether we're going to acknowledge what's been building between us for the past year. Whether we're going to be honest about the fact that this feels like more than professional collaboration."
"And if we acknowledge it? If we're honest about it? Then what?"
"Then we see what happens. We date. We spend time together. We figure out whether the connection is real or whether it's just nostalgia and professional compatibility."
"And if it's just nostalgia?"
"Then we figure that out too. And we decide how to move forward."
Kara was quiet for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was soft but decisive.
"I need more time, Lena."
"How much more time?"
"I don't know."
"Weeks? Months?"
"I don't know."
Lena felt something deflate in her chest. "Okay."
"I'm not saying no. I'm just saying I need to be sure. About what I want, about what I can offer, about whether it's fair to either of us to try this."
"Okay," Lena said again.
But as she left Kara's office, she couldn't shake the feeling that I need more time was just a gentle way of saying no.
March
The distance became more pronounced after that conversation.
Kara was still professional, still collaborative, still brought coffee to their Thursday meetings. But something had shifted in the way she held herself around Lena. More careful, more controlled, as if she was constantly monitoring herself for signs of emotional attachment that might be inappropriate.
Their work remained excellent. They submitted their paper to Nature, began developing a follow-up study, presented their findings at two more conferences.
But the easy intimacy of their collaboration had been replaced by something more brittle. Professional courtesy that felt effortful rather than natural.
"Is everything okay with you and Professor Danvers?" Maya asked after a department colloquium where Lena and Kara had presented their latest findings. "You seemed... distant today."
"Distant how?"
"I don't know. Less in sync than usual. Like you were being careful not to step on each other's toes."
Being careful not to step on each other's toes.
That was exactly what it felt like. As if they were both so conscious of boundaries that they'd lost the natural rhythm of their intellectual partnership.
"We're fine," Lena said. "Just focused on the research."
But they weren't fine. And the research was suffering for it.
Not in terms of quality-their work remained rigorous, innovative, significant. But in terms of the joy they'd once taken in building ideas together, the excitement of discovery, the sense that they were creating something larger than the sum of their individual contributions.
Now it felt like two accomplished academics working efficiently together rather than two people whose minds sparked off each other in ways that generated genuine innovation.
Lena missed the spark. Missed the sense that working with Kara was the best part of her week, the thing she looked forward to and planned around.
Now their meetings felt like obligations to be fulfilled rather than opportunities to be savored.
She tried to focus on other things. Developed relationships with other colleagues, accepted social invitations she'd been declining, threw herself into her individual research projects.
But nothing felt as engaging as working with Kara had felt. Nothing generated the same sense of intellectual excitement and personal fulfillment.
She was becoming someone who went through the motions of a successful academic career without feeling genuinely connected to any of it.
April
The news about Kara's summer plans came up casually during a department meeting.
"Professor Danvers has been awarded a fellowship to spend the summer in Ukraine," Dr. Martinez announced. "She'll be researching the role of social media in wartime information campaigns. Congratulations, Kara."
Polite applause around the conference table. Congratulations from colleagues who understood the prestige of such fellowships.
Lena felt the room tilt slightly.
Ukraine. War zone. The kind of dangerous assignment that had defined Kara's career before she came to Stanford.
The kind of assignment that could kill journalists who made small mistakes or found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.
After the meeting, Lena lingered while other faculty members filtered out of the conference room.
"Ukraine," she said when they were alone.
"Yes." Kara was packing papers into her bag with careful precision, not making eye contact.
"That's dangerous."
"All fieldwork is dangerous."
"Not like that. Not like active war zones."
"I've been in war zones before, Lena. I know how to be careful."
"Careful doesn't guarantee safety. You know that."
Kara looked up then, met Lena's eyes directly. "Are you asking me not to go?"
The question felt like a trap. Say yes, and she'd be the woman who asked Kara to limit her career for personal reasons. Say no, and she'd be accepting that Kara was choosing dangerous work over whatever possibility existed between them.
"I'm asking if you've considered the risks."
"Of course I've considered the risks. They're part of the job."
"And you're willing to accept them."
"I'm willing to accept them for work that matters. Work that could save lives by helping people understand how information warfare shapes conflict."
"There are other ways to do important work. Ways that don't involve traveling to places where journalists get killed."
"Are there? Because I've spent the past year in an academic environment, doing theoretical research that feels completely disconnected from real-world impact. I've published papers and given presentations and collaborated on studies that might influence policy in five years if we're lucky."
"Our research is important."
"Our research is academic. It's removed from the actual human consequences of the systems we're studying."
"So you're going to Ukraine to feel connected to real-world impact?"
"I'm going to Ukraine because someone offered me the opportunity to do the work I'm best at. The work that feels most meaningful to me."
"And what about the work we're doing together?"
"What about it?"
"We have three projects in development. Conference presentations scheduled for the fall. A potential book proposal."
"All of which can continue when I get back."
"If you get back."
The words slipped out before Lena could stop them. Harsher than she'd intended, more desperate.
Kara's expression went carefully neutral. "I always come back, Lena."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're looking for an excuse to leave."
"Leave what?"
"This. Stanford. Our collaboration. The conversation we've been having about what we might build together."
"I thought we decided to table that conversation."
"You decided to table it. I've been waiting for you to figure out what you want."
"And maybe this is what I want. Maybe fieldwork is what feels most authentic to me, and trying to build an academic life here is what feels artificial."
"Including trying to build something with me?"
Kara was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft but firm.
"Especially trying to build something with you."
The words hit Lena like a physical blow.
"What does that mean?"
"It means that being around you makes me want things I'm not sure I'm capable of wanting. It makes me remember what it felt like to believe in the possibility of building a life with another person. And I'm not sure that's healthy for me."
"Why isn't it healthy?"
"Because wanting something I can't have is a recipe for disappointment. And I've had enough disappointment."
"Who says you can't have it?"
"I say I can't have it. Because I don't know how to trust someone enough to build a life with them. Because I don't know how to believe that someone won't choose their career over me when the stakes get high."
The accusation hung between them like a blade.
"That's what this is about," Lena said quietly. "You think I'll choose my career over you again."
"Won't you?"
"I don't know. I'd like to think I wouldn't. I'd like to think I've learned from that mistake."
"But you don't know."
"No one knows anything for certain when they start a relationship. That's what makes it a risk."
"And I'm not willing to take that risk."
"Because of what happened nine years ago."
"Because of what happened nine years ago. Because of what I learned about myself and about love and about the kinds of choices people make when they're pressed to choose."
Lena felt tears building behind her eyes. "So you're going to Ukraine."
"I'm going to Ukraine."
"And when you come back?"
"When I come back, we'll continue our professional collaboration. We'll finish the research projects we've started. We'll maintain appropriate boundaries."
"Appropriate boundaries."
"Yes."
"And we'll pretend that this conversation never happened. That there's nothing between us except professional collaboration."
"There is nothing between us except professional collaboration."
The lie was so obvious, so deliberate, that it took Lena's breath away.
"You're really going to sit there and tell me that?"
"I'm going to sit here and tell you that whatever you think you've been feeling from me over the past year, whatever connection you think we've rebuilt, it's not enough to base a relationship on."
"Because you won't let it be enough."
"Because it isn't enough. Because professional compatibility and intellectual chemistry aren't the same thing as emotional intimacy. Because working well together doesn't mean we can love each other."
"It could mean that. If you let it."
"I can't let it, Lena. I can't let myself want something that might be taken away again."
"So you're taking it away first."
"I'm being realistic about what I can offer and what you deserve."
"What I deserve?"
"You deserve someone who can love you completely. Someone who can choose you without reservation. Someone who isn't damaged by old betrayals and war zones and too many years of emotional self-protection."
"What if I want you? Damaged and self-protective and all of it?"
"Then you're not seeing clearly."
"Or maybe you're the one who's not seeing clearly. Maybe you're so afraid of being hurt again that you're throwing away something good before it has a chance to develop."
Kara stood up, began gathering her things with sharp, efficient movements.
"I'm going to Ukraine in June," she said. "When I come back, I'll contact you about the fall conference presentations. Until then, I think we should take a break from our collaboration."
"A break?"
"Time and space to recalibrate. To remember what our professional relationship is supposed to look like."
"And what if I don't want time and space? What if I want to keep working together, keep building what we've been building?"
"Then you'll be doing it alone."
She was almost to the door when Lena found her voice again.
"You're a coward, Kara."
Kara stopped, turned back to face her.
"What did you say?"
"I said you're a coward. You run toward war zones where people shoot at you, but you're terrified of staying in one place long enough to let someone love you."
"That's not-"
"It is. You're so afraid of being abandoned that you abandon first. You're so convinced that love will hurt you that you make sure it can't happen."
"I'm protecting both of us."
"You're protecting yourself. And you're using my mistakes from nine years ago as an excuse to avoid taking any emotional risks now."
"Maybe I am. Maybe that's what I need to do to survive."
"Survive? Or just exist? Because there's a difference, Kara. There's a difference between surviving and actually living."
Kara's expression went cold, distant. The professional mask she wore when she was interviewing difficult sources or dealing with hostile editors.
"Thank you for your perspective, Professor Luthor. I'll take it under advisement."
Professor Luthor.
The formal title felt like a door slamming shut.
"That's it? That's how this ends?"
"This is how it ends."
"With you running away to a war zone to avoid having an honest conversation about your feelings?"
"With me making professional choices that feel authentic to who I am. And with you respecting those choices."
"And if I can't respect them? If I think you're making a mistake?"
"Then that's your problem to solve."
She left without saying goodbye.
Lena sat alone in the empty conference room for twenty minutes, staring at the whiteboard where they'd diagrammed their research findings just an hour earlier. All those careful connections between data points and theoretical frameworks and real-world applications.
All of it meaningless now.
Outside, spring rain was beginning to fall against the windows. The same kind of rain that had been falling the night Kara walked away from her nine years ago.
The same kind of rain that seemed to follow every important ending in their relationship.
Lena closed her eyes and tried not to think about the fact that she was losing Kara again.
Tried not to think about the fact that this time, she might not come back at all.
May
The email arrived on a Tuesday morning.
Subject: Ukraine Fellowship-Departure Date
Lena,
I wanted to let you know that my departure date has been moved up. I leave for Kyiv this weekend instead of June 1st.
I've prepared handover notes for our joint projects. The Nature revision is complete and ready for submission. Conference presentation materials are in the shared drive.
I'll be in touch when I return.
Best, Kara
Lena read the message three times.
Professional. Efficient. The kind of email colleagues send when they need to transfer project responsibilities.
No acknowledgment of their last conversation. No reference to the things they'd said to each other in the conference room three weeks earlier.
No indication that leaving early might be connected to anything other than fellowship logistics.
But Lena knew better.
This wasn't about fellowship timing. This was about escape. About putting physical distance between them before the emotional distance could be tested any further.
She typed and deleted seventeen different responses.
Have you thought about what I said?
Are you running away?
Please don't go.
I'm sorry for calling you a coward.
Come back safely.
I love you.
In the end, she sent nothing.
What was the point? Kara had made her choice. Had chosen dangerous fieldwork over the possibility of building something safe and stable with someone who understood her.
Had chosen fear over hope.
Had chosen to leave rather than risk being left.
That Thursday, Lena sat in her office during their usual meeting time. Coffee for one instead of two. Research notes spread across her desk instead of their shared conference table.
The silence felt cavernous.
She tried to focus on her individual projects, on the work she'd been neglecting while collaborating with Kara. But everything felt hollow, pointless.
Her phone buzzed with a text message.
Landed safely in Kyiv. Beginning research tomorrow.
From Kara.
Lena stared at the message for a long time. Professional update. Proof of safe arrival. The kind of text you send to colleagues who might be concerned about your welfare.
But also: contact. Connection. Acknowledgment that Lena was someone worth updating about her safety.
She typed back: Good luck with the research. Stay safe.
Professional. Appropriate. Exactly the kind of response a concerned colleague would send.
But her hands were shaking when she hit send.
Outside her office window, spring was giving way to early summer. Students were preparing for finals, faculty were making plans for research sabbaticals and conference travel.
Everyone was moving forward with their lives, building toward futures that felt meaningful and substantial.
Lena felt suspended in amber. Waiting for something that might never come. Hoping for someone who had chosen to leave rather than stay and see what they might build together.
She closed her laptop and went home early.
Spent the evening grading papers and trying not to think about Kara in a war zone, surrounded by people who saw journalists as targets rather than truth-tellers.
Trying not to think about the fact that their last conversation had been an argument. That the last thing she'd said to Kara was to call her a coward.
Trying not to think about what she would do if something happened to Kara while she was gone.
If the last words between them were accusations and professional distance rather than honesty and care.
If she lost Kara permanently this time, not to choice but to chance.
To the kind of random violence that claimed journalists who were simply trying to bear witness to truth in places where truth was dangerous.
Lena poured herself a glass of wine and sat by her window, watching the sun set over the Stanford campus where she and Kara had spent a year rebuilding something beautiful and complicated and ultimately impossible.
Where they had come close to trying again, only to discover that some kinds of damage couldn't be undone by good intentions and careful collaboration.
Some kinds of trust, once broken, might be irreparable.
Some kinds of love, once lost, might be too dangerous to risk finding again.
June
The news came through official channels first.
An email from the journalism department: Journalist injured in Kyiv explosion. Professor Danvers stable but hospitalized.
Lena's vision grayed around the edges as she read the brief update. Stable but hospitalized.
What did that mean? How injured? How stable?
She called Dr. Martinez immediately.
"What do you know? What happened?"
"Shell hit a building she was in during an interview. Three journalists injured, one killed. Kara has a concussion and some broken ribs, but she's conscious and alert."
"When?"
"Yesterday. The department just got word from the fellowship coordinator."
"Is she coming home?"
"I don't know. The fellowship runs through August, and she's reportedly insisting she's fine to continue working."
Of course she is.
Even injured, even having survived an explosion that killed someone, Kara was insisting on staying in the field.
Because the work was important. Because she was committed to the story. Because coming home would mean facing everything she'd left behind.
Including Lena.
That night, Lena sent a text: Heard about the explosion. Thank God you're okay.
The response came six hours later: Concussion and bruised ribs. Nothing serious. Back to work next week.
Nothing serious.
As if surviving an explosion that killed a colleague was a minor inconvenience rather than a traumatic near-death experience.
Are you sure you should go back to work so quickly?
Doctor cleared me. Story is important.
More important than your health?
Important enough.
Lena stared at that response for a long time.
Important enough.
Important enough to risk permanent injury. Important enough to stay in a place where buildings exploded around journalists. Important enough to avoid coming home to deal with complicated feelings and unresolved conversations.
She didn't respond.
What was the point? Kara had made her priorities clear. The work came first. The story came first. Everything else-including her own safety, including whatever existed between them-was secondary.
Always secondary.
Two weeks later, another text: Follow-up story published in Washington Post. Thought you might be interested.
Lena read the article online
PART 5-Choosing You, Always
August
The call came at 3 AM Pacific time.
Lena's phone buzzed against her nightstand, pulling her from sleep with the particular urgency that middle-of-the-night calls carried. She fumbled for it in the dark, heart already racing with the kind of dread that came from knowing someone you cared about was in a dangerous place.
"Hello?"
"Lena?" Kara's voice was rough, distant. Connection crackling with international phone line static.
"Kara? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm..." A pause. Background noise that sounded like sirens, or maybe just traffic. "I'm okay. Physically okay."
Lena sat up, turned on her bedside lamp. "What happened?"
"There was another explosion. Closer this time. I was..." Another pause, longer. "I was supposed to be in that café. The one that got hit. But I was running late because I was on a call with my editor, arguing about deadline extensions, and by the time I got there..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
"Kara."
"Six people died, Lena. Six people died in a place I was supposed to be, and I'm alive because I was arguing with my editor about whether I needed another week to finish a story that probably won't change anything anyway."
Her voice was flat, shocked. The tone of someone trying to process information that was too big to fit into normal categories of understanding.
"You're alive," Lena said. "That's what matters."
"Is it? Because right now it feels like I'm alive by accident. Like I'm taking up space that should belong to someone else."
"That's survivor's guilt talking. It's normal after trauma-"
"Don't." Kara's voice sharpened. "Don't therapize me right now. Don't tell me what's normal."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
"I just..." Another pause. "I called because I needed to hear your voice. I needed to talk to someone who knew me before I became this person who documents death for a living."
Lena felt something break open in her chest. "I'm here."
"I know you are. You're always there, aren't you? Even when I push you away, even when I tell you there's nothing between us, even when I run halfway around the world to avoid dealing with my feelings."
"Kara-"
"I've been thinking about what you said. About being a coward."
"I shouldn't have said that."
"Yes, you should have. Because it was true. I am a coward. I run toward bullets and bombs because it's easier than staying in one place long enough to let someone love me."
Lena closed her eyes, pressed the phone closer to her ear as if proximity could somehow close the distance between them.
"You're not a coward. You're scared. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Cowards don't call people at 3 AM from war zones to have honest conversations about their feelings."
Kara's laugh was short, bitter. "Maybe they do if they're scared enough."
"What are you scared of?"
"You know what I'm scared of."
"Tell me anyway."
A long pause. Sirens in the background, or maybe it was just the sound of a city that never slept because sleeping meant vulnerability.
"I'm scared of wanting something I can't have," Kara said finally. "I'm scared of trusting someone enough to build a life with them. I'm scared that if I let myself love you completely, you'll choose something else when the stakes get high."
"And I'm scared that if I don't let myself love you completely, I'll regret it for the rest of my life."
"Lena..."
"I'm scared that I'll spend the next nine years wondering what would have happened if I'd been braver. If I'd fought harder for what we could have instead of accepting your decision to run away."
"I didn't run away. I took a fellowship."
"You ran away, Kara. And I let you, because I was afraid of being the woman who asks someone to choose her over their career. But you know what I've realized over the past three months?"
"What?"
"I was asking you to choose me over your fear, not your career. And there's a difference."
Kara was quiet for so long that Lena wondered if the connection had dropped.
"Are you still there?"
"I'm here. I'm just... processing."
"Take your time."
"You really think I was running away from fear rather than toward something important?"
"I think both things can be true. I think the fellowship is important work that matters to you. And I think you chose it partly because it meant not having to deal with the possibility of trying again with me."
"Maybe you're right."
"Maybe I am."
"So what do we do about it?"
The question hung between them across thousands of miles of fiber optic cable and satellite transmission. Heavy with possibility and terror in equal measure.
"I don't know," Lena said. "What do you want to do about it?"
"I want to come home."
"Then come home."
"It's not that simple. The fellowship doesn't end until September. I have interviews scheduled, stories to finish-"
"Kara."
"What?"
"Come home."
"But the work-"
"Will still be important in a month. Will still need to be done by someone. But it doesn't have to be done by you, right now, at the cost of everything else."
"You don't understand. This story could change how people think about information warfare. It could influence policy-"
"And it still will. Whether you finish it in August or September or October. The story will still matter."
"But if I leave now-"
"If you stay now, you might not survive to finish it anyway. And then it definitely won't get written."
The brutal honesty of that statement seemed to land like a physical blow.
"Jesus, Lena."
"I'm sorry. But it's true. You've been injured twice in three months. You just missed being killed by fifteen minutes. At what point do you admit that the cost might be higher than the benefit?"
"The cost has always been high. That's why the work matters."
"The cost has never included your life before."
"Hasn't it? Every time I've gone into a conflict zone, I've risked my life. That's the job."
"No, that's the job you've chosen because it feels safer than risking your heart."
Silence again. Longer this time.
"That's not fair," Kara said finally.
"Isn't it? When was the last time you took an assignment that didn't involve physical danger? When was the last time you stayed in one place long enough to build real relationships?"
"I have real relationships."
"With who? Sam, who you dated casually until she wanted something more serious? Your colleagues, who you work with professionally but don't let get too close? Me, who you've been holding at arm's length for a year because you're terrified of what might happen if you let me all the way in?"
"That's not-"
"It is, Kara. You've built a life where physical courage substitutes for emotional courage. Where you can feel brave and important and valuable without ever having to risk being truly vulnerable with another person."
"And what if that's what I need to do to function? What if emotional vulnerability is too dangerous for me?"
"Then you're not living. You're just surviving. And there's a difference."
The words echoed their argument from three months earlier, but with different weight now. Less accusation, more sadness.
"I don't know how to be vulnerable anymore," Kara said quietly. "I don't know how to let someone love me without waiting for them to leave."
"Then learn. Come home and learn."
"What if I can't? What if I try and I fail and I hurt both of us in the process?"
"Then we'll figure it out together. But we can't figure anything out with you in Kyiv and me in California."
"And if I come home? What then? What are you offering me, Lena?"
The question felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. Time to choose how far she was willing to fall.
"I'm offering you everything," Lena said. "I'm offering you a chance to build something real together. To try again, but better this time. With full information and honest communication and both of us choosing love over fear."
"That's a big offer."
"It's the only offer I'm interested in making."
"And if it doesn't work? If we try and it falls apart again?"
"Then at least we'll know we tried. At least we won't spend the rest of our lives wondering what might have been."
Kara was quiet again. When she spoke, her voice was softer, more uncertain.
"I'm scared, Lena."
"I know."
"I'm scared of coming home and discovering that what I felt for you was just nostalgia. I'm scared of staying and discovering that I'm not capable of building something lasting with anyone."
"Those are both possibilities."
"Doesn't that terrify you?"
"Yes. But you know what terrifies me more?"
"What?"
"The possibility that you are capable of building something lasting, that what we have is real and significant and worth fighting for, and that we'll lose it because we were too afraid to try."
"You really believe that? That what we have is worth fighting for?"
"I've believed it for a year. I've believed it through months of careful professional collaboration and unspoken tension and you dating other people and running away to war zones. I've believed it through arguments and accusations and you calling me names and me calling you names. I believe it now, talking to you from half a world away at 3 AM while you process almost being killed."
"Why?"
"Because when I'm working with you, I feel like the best version of myself. Because you challenge me intellectually and support me emotionally and make me laugh even when I'm frustrated with you. Because the year we spent rebuilding our collaboration has been the happiest I've been since we broke up the first time."
"Lena..."
"Because I love you, Kara. I've loved you for nine years, even when I was angry with you, even when I thought I'd lost you forever. I love who you are now, not just who you used to be. I love your cynicism and your courage and your stubborn determination to document truth even when it's dangerous."
"I love you too," Kara said quietly. "That's the problem."
"That's not a problem. That's the solution."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Because if we love each other, then everything else is just logistics. Where we live, how we structure our careers, how we deal with the practical challenges of building a life together-those are all solvable problems."
"And if they're not solvable?"
"Then we solve them anyway. Because that's what people who love each other do."
Kara was quiet for a long time. In the background, Lena could hear the sounds of a city at night-traffic, sirens, the distant rumble of activity that never quite stopped.
"I want to come home," Kara said finally. "But I'm terrified."
"Come home anyway."
"What if I get there and panic? What if I try to run again?"
"Then I'll stop you. I'll remind you why you came home. I'll fight for us this time instead of letting you make the decision alone."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, I'm coming home. I'll talk to the fellowship coordinator tomorrow. Figure out how to wrap up the essential work and transfer the rest to someone else."
"Really?"
"Really. I'm tired of being brave about the wrong things."
Lena felt tears start behind her eyes. Relief and terror and hope all tangled together into something that felt too big for her chest.
"How long?"
"Two weeks, maybe three. I need to finish the current story and transition my sources to another journalist."
"I can wait two weeks."
"Can you? Because if you change your mind, if you decide this is too complicated-"
"I won't change my mind, Kara."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've been waiting for nine years. What's two more weeks?"
September
Kara's flight landed on a Tuesday afternoon.
Lena had offered to pick her up from the airport, but Kara had declined. I need a few hours to settle in, decompress from the travel. Can we meet tonight instead?
So Lena spent the day pacing her apartment, cleaning things that were already clean, checking her phone every fifteen minutes for updates that didn't come.
At 6 PM, her doorbell rang.
She opened the door to find Kara standing on her front step, looking tired and uncertain and more beautiful than Lena remembered.
"Hi," Kara said.
"Hi."
They looked at each other for a moment, neither quite sure how to navigate this transition from phone conversations to physical presence, from international crisis to domestic possibility.
"Do you want to come in?" Lena asked.
"Yes. Please."
Kara followed her into the living room, set down a small overnight bag by the door. She was thinner than she'd been in May, more angular. The kind of weight loss that came from stress rather than intention.
"You look tired," Lena observed.
"I am tired. Exhausted, actually. It's been..." She gestured vaguely. "A lot."
"Do you want something to drink? Coffee, wine, water?"
"Wine. Definitely wine."
Lena poured two glasses of red wine, handed one to Kara. Their fingers brushed during the exchange-first intentional physical contact in four months.
"So," Kara said, settling onto the couch. "I'm here."
"You're here."
"Now what?"
"I don't know. What do you want to happen now?"
Kara took a large sip of wine, seemed to gather courage from it.
"I want to tell you that I love you. That I've loved you for nine years, even when I was convinced I couldn't trust you, even when I was running away from the possibility of being hurt again."
"Kara-"
"I want to tell you that the past three months in Ukraine were the loneliest I've ever been, because I was surrounded by important work and meaningful stories and I couldn't stop thinking about you. About what we could have if I was brave enough to try."
"You are brave enough."
"Am I? Because sitting here now, looking at you, knowing that you're offering me everything I thought I wanted but was too scared to ask for-I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of fucking this up. Of discovering that I'm too damaged by years of emotional self-protection to actually build something healthy with another person."
"You're not too damaged."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here. Because you came home when I asked you to. Because you're willing to have this conversation even though it scares you."
Kara set down her wine glass, leaned forward slightly.
"Lena, I need you to understand something."
"Okay."
"If we do this-if we try again-it's not going to be easy. I'm not the same person I was nine years ago. I'm more guarded, more cynical, more prone to assuming the worst about people's motivations."
"I know."
"I have nightmares sometimes. From the places I've been, the things I've seen. I wake up in the middle of the night disoriented and defensive."
"Okay."
"I don't know how to do domestic things anymore. I don't know how to plan for a future beyond the next assignment. I don't know how to share space with another person without feeling claustrophobic."
"We'll figure it out."
"And I don't know how to trust that you won't choose something else over me when the stakes get high. I want to trust that, but I don't know if I can."
Lena reached across the space between them, took Kara's hand in hers.
"You picked me then," she said quietly. "Nine years ago, when Stanford offered you the job first, you told them you'd only accept if I was offered the same position. You chose us over your individual career advancement."
"I did."
"You chose love over ambition. You chose partnership over personal success. You made the choice I should have made."
"And then you broke my heart by not making the same choice."
"Yes. I did. And I've regretted it every day since."
"So what's different this time?"
"This time, I pick you. Not because I have to, not because circumstances force me to, but because I want to. Because I've learned that professional success means nothing without someone to share it with."
"And if another opportunity comes up? Another job offer, another career advancement that requires choosing between your ambitions and our relationship?"
"Then I choose you. Every time."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I've spent nine years living with the consequences of not choosing you. Because I've had professional success and academic recognition and all the career advancement I thought I wanted, and none of it feels meaningful without you."
Kara's eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"I want to believe that."
"Then believe it."
"What if I can't? What if I try and I just... can't trust you enough to build something real?"
"Then we work on it. We get counseling, we have honest conversations, we take things slowly until trust rebuilds. But we don't give up before we start."
"And if it takes months? Years?"
"Then it takes months or years. I'm not going anywhere, Kara."
"You say that now-"
"I say that now and I'll say it tomorrow and next month and next year. Because this time, I know what I'm choosing. I'm choosing you, completely and without reservation."
Kara was crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I'm so tired of being afraid," she whispered.
"Then stop being afraid."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it? You've spent years being brave about everything except this. You've risked your life for stories, traveled to war zones, confronted armed soldiers and corrupt officials and people who would kill you for telling the truth. Surely you can risk your heart for love."
"What if love is scarier than war zones?"
"Then we'll be scared together."
Lena moved closer, cupped Kara's face in her hands, used her thumbs to wipe away tears.
"I love you," she said. "I love you exactly as you are right now-scared and cynical and traumatized and brilliant and beautiful and more courageous than you know."
"I love you too," Kara said. "God help me, I love you too."
They kissed then, soft and tentative at first, then deeper. Nine years of separation and longing and careful professional distance dissolving into something that felt like coming home.
Like choosing each other, finally and completely.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Kara rested her forehead against Lena's.
"So what happens now?"
"Now we figure it out together. We take it one day at a time and build something that works for both of us."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Neither do I. We'll learn."
"What if we're terrible at it?"
"Then we'll be terrible at it together, and we'll get better."
Kara smiled then, the first genuine smile Lena had seen from her since she'd returned from Ukraine.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, let's try. Let's build something together and see what happens."
"Are you sure?"
"No. But I'm sure that I want to try. I'm sure that I love you and you love me and that has to be enough to start with."
"It's enough," Lena said. "It's more than enough."
October
They didn't move in together immediately.
Kara needed space to decompress from Ukraine, to readjust to civilian life, to remember how to exist in a place where explosions weren't a daily possibility.
But they spent time together. Careful, intentional time that felt like dating but with the weight of shared history and mutual knowledge of each other's fears and wounds.
Coffee dates that turned into long walks around campus. Dinners that stretched late into the evening as they talked about everything except work. Quiet mornings in Lena's apartment, reading newspapers and drinking coffee and learning how to share domestic space again.
"This is weird," Kara said one Sunday morning, looking up from the New York Times crossword puzzle. "Being in the same place for more than two weeks."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"I don't know yet. Different weird."
They were sitting on Lena's couch, legs tangled together, coffee cups balanced on the armrests. Outside, October rain was painting the windows with watercolor streaks.
"Do you miss it?" Lena asked. "The field work?"
"Sometimes. I miss the clarity of it. The sense that what I was doing mattered immediately, that stories I wrote could influence policy decisions or save lives."
"Your work here matters too."
"Does it? Sometimes teaching feels like... theoretical. Removed from real impact."
"You're shaping the next generation of journalists. Teaching them how to think critically about information systems and algorithmic bias. That's not theoretical impact-that's foundational impact."
Kara smiled, reached over to touch Lena's hand.
"You always did see the bigger picture better than I do."
"And you always did see the human story better than I do. That's why we work well together."
"Do we? Work well together?"
"I think so. Don't you?"
"I think we're learning how to work well together. How to balance individual needs with shared goals."
"Speaking of shared goals," Lena said carefully, "Dr. Martinez asked me if we'd be interested in co-teaching a seminar next semester. Digital ethics and conflict reporting."
"Co-teaching?"
"Official collaboration. Shared curriculum, team-taught classes, joint office hours."
Kara was quiet for a moment, considering.
"That would mean a lot of time together. Professional and personal boundaries getting blurred."
"They're already blurred."
"True. But making it official... that's a big step."
"Too big?"
"I don't know. What do you think?"
"I think it sounds like exactly the kind of work we both care about. And I think we're good at bringing out the best in each other's teaching."
"But?"
"But it would also mean committing to staying here long- term. Both of us. Building something stable instead of keeping our options open."
Kara set down her coffee cup, turned to face Lena directly.
"Is that what you want? Something stable?"
"With you? Yes."
"Even if it means I might never go back to field reporting? Even if I become someone who teaches instead of someone who does?"
"Kara, you've done more important journalism in the past decade than most people do in entire careers. You've won a Pulitzer, influenced policy, saved lives with your reporting. If you want to shift focus to teaching and research, that doesn't make you less of a journalist."
"Doesn't it?"
"No. It makes you a journalist who's choosing to have impact in a different way."
"And if I miss the field work? If I get restless with academic life?"
"Then we figure it out. Maybe you take occasional freelance assignments. Maybe we spend summers abroad doing research. Maybe you find ways to bring field experience into the classroom."
"And you'd be okay with that? With uncertainty, with the possibility that I might need to travel for work sometimes?"
"As long as you come home to me. As long as we make decisions together instead of you disappearing for months without warning."
Kara leaned over, kissed Lena softly.
"I want to come home to you," she said. "I want to build something stable and lasting and real."
"Then let's do it."
"The co- teaching?"
"The co- teaching. The shared life. All of it."
"Even though we don't know what all of it looks like yet?"
"Especially because we don't know what it looks like yet. That's what makes it an adventure instead of a foregone conclusion."
Kara smiled, the kind of smile that transformed her entire face.
"Okay," she said. "Let's build something together."
November
The apartment hunting started as a practical necessity.
Kara's temporary housing was ending, and Lena's one-bedroom wasn't really big enough for two people who both worked from home and needed space for research and writing.
But looking at apartments together felt significant in ways that went beyond practical considerations.
"Two bedrooms?" the real estate agent asked as they climbed the stairs to the third showing of the day.
"Yes," Lena said. "We both need office space."
"And you're both faculty at Stanford?"
"Yes," Kara replied. "Computer science and journalism."
"How lovely. Academic couples are some of my favorite clients. You understand the importance of good workspace."
Academic couples.
They'd become an academic couple without explicitly discussing it. Somewhere between deciding to co-teach and apartment hunting and introducing each other to colleagues as partners rather than collaborators.
"This unit has great natural light," the agent was saying, unlocking the door to a spacious two-bedroom with hardwood floors and large windows facing west. "And the second bedroom could easily function as an office or study."
They wandered through the space, imagining their furniture arranged in the living room, their books combined on built-in shelves, their coffee mugs sharing kitchen cabinet space.
"What do you think?" Lena asked when the agent stepped outside to take a phone call.
"I think it's perfect," Kara said. "I think it feels like home."
"Really?"
"Really. Look at this kitchen-it's big enough for both of us to cook at the same time. And that window in the second bedroom would be perfect for your desk."
"What about your desk?"
"I was thinking the living room. I like working in spaces where there's activity, background noise. You need quiet and privacy for concentration."
The casual way Kara had already imagined their shared domestic arrangements made Lena's chest tight with happiness.
"You've thought about this."
"I've thought about what it would be like to share space with you again. What we'd each need to feel comfortable and productive."
"And?"
"And I think we could make it work. Different from how it worked nine years ago, because we're different people now. But better, maybe."
"Better how?"
"More intentional. More aware of what we're building together and why it matters."
They signed the lease that afternoon.
December
Moving in together was easier than either of them had expected.
Their books integrated naturally-Kara's journalism texts alongside Lena's computer science research, fiction mixed with academic papers, newspapers from around the world scattered across coffee tables and kitchen counters.
Their furniture fit together with minimal negotiation. Kara's comfortable reading chair in the living room corner, Lena's desk by the bedroom window, shared space that felt organic rather than forced.
"I forgot how much stuff you have," Kara said, unpacking boxes of kitchen equipment.
"I forgot how little stuff you have," Lena replied, hanging Kara's three photographs in frames that had held empty wall space for months.
"I got used to traveling light. Everything I owned had to fit in two suitcases."
"And now?"
"Now I get to accumulate things again. Books I want to keep, furniture that's comfortable instead of just functional, kitchen tools for cooking meals instead of just reheating takeout."
"Is that good or scary?"
"Good. Definitely good. It feels like investing in staying somewhere instead of just passing through."
Their domestic routines developed naturally. Kara made coffee in the mornings-still the perfect combination of cream and sugar for Lena's taste. Lena cooked dinner most evenings, experimenting with recipes that used ingredients more complex than whatever could be prepared on a hotel room hot plate.
They worked well in shared space. Kara at the dining room table with her laptop and stacks of student papers, Lena in the second bedroom with her multiple monitors and research databases. Close enough to feel connected, separate enough to focus.
"This is nice," Kara said one evening, looking up from grading to find Lena reading on the couch, feet tucked under her, wine glass balanced on the armrest.
"What's nice?"
"This. Domestic life. Sharing space with someone who understands that sometimes you need quiet for thinking and sometimes you need company for processing."
"You sound surprised."
"I am surprised. I thought I'd feel claustrophobic, having someone around all the time. But it's... comfortable. Like having a thinking partner who also makes excellent pasta."
"Just excellent?"
"Outstanding pasta. Exceptional pasta. Pasta that ruined me for all other pasta."
"That's better."
Lena marked her place in her book, moved to sit beside Kara on the dining room bench.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"Yes. Are you?"
"Yes. Happier than I've been in nine years."
"Even though we're still figuring things out? Even though I still have bad days when the nightmares are worse or I get restless about not doing field work?"
"Especially because we're figuring things out together. Because you tell me about the bad days instead of disappearing until they pass."
Kara leaned over, kissed Lena's temple.
"I love you," she said. "I love this life we're building."
"I love you too. I love that we get to build it together this time."
"Together," Kara repeated. "I like the sound of that."
Christmas Eve
They spent Christmas Eve at home, cooking an elaborate dinner and opening presents by the tree they'd decorated with ornaments that told the story of their relationship.
A small Eiffel Tower from the conference where they'd first kissed. A tiny laptop computer representing their collaborative research. A miniature coffee cup commemorating their Thursday morning ritual.
"I have something for you," Lena said after they'd finished dinner and were sitting by the tree with wine and chocolate.
"We already did presents."
"This is different. Not a Christmas present, exactly. More like... a promise."
Lena pulled an envelope from the pocket of her sweater, handed it to Kara.
"What is it?"
"Open it."
Inside was a single sheet of paper. A letter of resignation from her Stanford position, dated but not signed.
"Lena..." Kara looked up, confused. "What is this?"
"A choice. If you decide you want to go back to field reporting, if you miss that work too much to be happy teaching, I'll resign from Stanford and we'll figure out how to build a life that incorporates your travel."
"You'd do that?"
"I'd do that."
"But your tenure, your research, everything you've built here-"
"Means nothing compared to building a life with you."
Kara stared at the letter for a long time.
"You know I'm not going to let you do this," she said finally.
"It's not about letting me. It's about understanding that I choose you. That if circumstances require me to choose between my career and our relationship, I choose our relationship."
"And if I wanted to freelance occasionally? Take short assignments a few times a year?"
"Then we'd figure out how to make that work. Together."
"And if I decided I wanted to stay here permanently? Focus on teaching and research and never go back to conflict zones?"
"Then we'd figure out how to make that work too. Together."
Kara folded the letter carefully, set it aside.
"You really mean it. You'd choose me over professional advancement."
"I already chose you over professional advancement. The day I agreed to co-teach with you instead of pursuing individual research opportunities. The day I started planning my sabbaticals around your schedule. The day I decided that building something with you was more important than building something alone."
"But this," Kara gestured to the letter, "this is different. This is choosing me over everything else."
"No. This is choosing us over fear. Choosing love over self-protection. Choosing to trust that what we're building together is strong enough to weather career changes and geographic relocations and all the practical challenges that life might throw at us."
Kara was crying again, but smiling through the tears.
"You picked me then," she said, echoing Lena's words from their phone conversation months earlier. "This time, I pick you."
"This time, we pick each other."
"Yes. We pick each other."
They kissed under the Christmas tree, surrounded by ornaments that told the story of their past and the presents that represented their future.
When they broke apart, Kara reached into her own pocket and pulled out a small box.
"I have something for you too," she said.
"Kara..."
"Not what you think. Or maybe exactly what you think, but not in the way you think."
Lena opened the box to find a simple silver ring with a small stone.
"It's not an engagement ring," Kara said quickly. "I mean, not exactly. It's more like... a promise ring. A symbol that we're choosing each other, building something real together, committing to figuring out the future as a team instead of as individuals."
"It's beautiful."
"Do you like it?"
"I love it. I love what it represents."
Lena slipped the ring onto her right hand, admired the way it caught the light from the Christmas tree.
"Does this mean we're engaged to be engaged?" she asked.
"It means we're committed to being committed. To choosing each other, over and over again, until choosing each other becomes so natural that we can't imagine any other choice."
"I can't imagine any other choice already."
"Neither can I."
They sat by the tree until midnight, talking about their plans for the co-taught seminar, their ideas for collaborative research, their hopes for the life they were building together.
When they finally went to bed, it was with the certainty that they had chosen correctly. That love, when it was real and freely given and supported by mutual respect and shared values, was worth every risk.
That some things, once broken, could be rebuilt into something stronger than they had been before.
That choosing each other, over and over again, was the beginning of everything.
PART 6-EPILOGUE-The Life They Built
Three Years Later
Maya Chen knocked on the office door at exactly 3 PM, clutching a stack of research proposals and wearing the expression of someone who'd been rehearsing this conversation for weeks.
"Professors Luthor and Danvers? Do you have a moment?"
Lena looked up from her laptop where she'd been reviewing conference abstracts. Across the room, Kara was sprawled in the reading chair they'd moved into their shared office, red pen in hand, surrounded by student papers like fallen leaves.
"Of course, Maya. Come in."
Their shared office had become something of a legend among graduate students. Unlike the sterile, formal spaces most faculty maintained, this one felt alive-two desks positioned to face each other across the room, bookshelves that mixed computer science texts with journalism histories, a small coffee station that Kara had installed "for survival purposes," and walls covered with photos from Bangladesh, newspaper clippings, and a whiteboard perpetually filled with half-erased equations and story outlines.
Maya settled into the chair between their desks, glancing nervously between them.
"I wanted to ask you about something personal. Well, professional. But also personal."
Kara set down her pen, gave Maya her full attention. "Shoot."
"How do you do it? Balance everything? The collaborative research, the individual teaching loads, the relationship dynamics, the travel? Everyone in the department talks about you two like you've solved some impossible equation."
Lena and Kara exchanged a glance-the kind of wordless communication that had developed over years of working together.
"What do you mean, everyone talks about us?" Kara asked.
Maya's cheeks flushed slightly. "Oh, you know. The graduate students have theories. About how you make it work. There are like... case studies."
"Case studies?" Lena tried not to laugh.
"Well, not official case studies. But we observe. Like, Professor Danvers always brings you coffee exactly how you like it, but Professor Luthor always remembers when Professor Danvers has morning interviews and schedules around them. You finish each other's thoughts in seminars but you never talk over each other. You have this whole... ecosystem."
"Ecosystem," Kara repeated, amused.
"And then there's the way you argue. Like, in class discussions, you'll completely disagree about methodological approaches, but it never feels personal. It feels like you're building toward something better together."
Maya pulled out her phone, scrolled through what appeared to be notes.
"Jessica from the journalism department says you're proof that academic couples don't have to be competitive. David from computer science thinks you're evidence that interdisciplinary collaboration can actually work long-term. And everyone who took your seminar last semester says watching you teach together was like watching two people speak the same language fluently."
Lena felt warmth spread through her chest. Not embarrassment, but something deeper-pride, maybe, or recognition.
"And what do you think?" Kara asked gently.
"I think," Maya said carefully, "that you've figured out how to be individuals who enhance each other instead of individuals who compromise for each other. Like, you're both better at your jobs because of your relationship, not in spite of it."
"That's very observant," Lena said.
"It's also why I wanted to ask you about graduate school applications. I'm interested in pursuing research that bridges my interests, but I'm worried about being taken seriously if I can't fit neatly into one department."
"Ah," Kara said, understanding. "You want to know if interdisciplinary work is actually sustainable."
"I want to know if it's possible to build a career that doesn't require choosing between different parts of yourself."
Lena leaned forward. "Maya, what's your research question? Not what department it belongs to, not what advisor would make sense. What do you actually want to understand?"
"How social media algorithms affect news consumption patterns in different cultural contexts. Specifically, whether algorithmic bias can be culturally specific, not just individually specific."
"That's a brilliant question," Kara said immediately. "And it's exactly the kind of question that requires both technical analysis and cultural anthropology."
"But how do I structure a PhD program around that? How do I find advisors who understand both sides?"
"You find advisors who understand that good research follows interesting questions, not departmental boundaries," Lena replied. "You build a committee that includes people from multiple disciplines. You design your own path."
"Like you did with your collaboration?"
"Like we did with our collaboration," Kara confirmed. "We didn't set out to become an interdisciplinary research team. We just kept following questions that interested us both."
After Maya left, they sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"Case studies," Kara said finally.
"Ecosystems," Lena replied.
"I like that they notice we argue well."
"I like that they think we enhance each other."
"We do enhance each other."
"I know. But it's nice that other people can see it too."
Kara got up from her chair, moved to lean against Lena's desk.
"You know what else is nice?"
"What?"
"That we've become the kind of academic couple that makes graduate students believe interdisciplinary work is possible. That we're proof it doesn't have to be either/or."
"Both/and," Lena said, reaching up to take Kara's hand.
"Both/and."
The Proposal
The conversation started in the garden.
It was early October, and they were harvesting the last of the summer tomatoes before the first frost. Kara was kneeling beside the plants, hands stained red from juice, while Lena held a basket that was already overflowing with cherry tomatoes, full-size beefsteaks, and the strange purple heirlooms that had been an experiment.
"We're going to be eating pasta sauce for months," Lena observed.
"We could give some away. Maya mentioned she's living on ramen and cafeteria food."
"Graduate student care packages. I like it."
They worked in companionable silence, the October sun warm on their backs despite the cool edge to the air that promised winter was coming.
"I've been thinking," Kara said, not looking up from the tomato plant she was carefully harvesting.
"About?"
"About time. About how we measure it."
Lena set down the basket, gave Kara her full attention. "Elaborate."
"Three years ago, when I came back from Ukraine, I couldn't imagine planning more than a few weeks into the future. Everything felt temporary, conditional. Like I was just passing through my own life."
"And now?"
"Now I think in decades. I make ten-year plans. I buy furniture that's meant to last, not just functional until the next move."
"Is that good or unsettling?"
"Good. Definitely good. But also... significant."
Kara sat back on her heels, looked at Lena directly.
"I want to plan the rest of my life with you. Not just the next semester or the next research project, but all of it. The whole messy, complicated, beautiful arc of building something together."
Lena felt her pulse quicken. "Kara..."
"I know we already live together. I know we're already committed to each other in every practical way. But I want to make it official. I want legal recognition of what we've built. I want to be able to introduce you as my wife instead of my partner."
"Are you proposing to me in the tomato patch?"
"I'm proposing to you in the garden we grew together, surrounded by evidence that we can plant things and nurture them and watch them flourish."
Lena felt tears start behind her eyes. "That's either the most romantic thing you've ever said or the nerdiest."
"Can't it be both?"
"It can definitely be both."
Kara reached into her pocket, pulled out a small box that was dirt-smudged but unmistakably from a jewelry store.
"I had a whole speech planned. About growth and seasons and putting down roots. But sitting here, looking at you in the sunlight with tomato stains on your hands and dirt under your fingernails, all I can think is that I want to keep choosing you for the rest of my life."
"Kara."
"I want to wake up next to you when we're seventy and argue about comma placement and travel to places that don't have reliable internet and watch you revolutionize how people think about technology and ethics."
"Yes."
"I want to plant gardens and host dinner parties and co-teach seminars and watch our students become better researchers because they learned from both of us."
"Yes."
"I want to build a legacy together that's bigger than either of us could create alone."
"Yes, Kara. Yes to all of it."
Kara opened the box to reveal a ring that was elegant and simple and completely perfect-white gold with a small diamond surrounded by tiny emeralds.
"The emeralds are for growth," she said, slipping it onto Lena's finger. "For the garden, for our research, for the life we keep building together."
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful. This life we've created is beautiful."
They kissed among the tomato plants, surrounded by the smell of earth and growing things and the late afternoon light that turned everything golden.
"I love you," Lena said against Kara's lips.
"I love you too. I love you and I choose you and I want to keep choosing you until choosing you becomes as natural as breathing."
"It already is as natural as breathing."
"Then marry me anyway."
"I already said yes."
"Say it again."
"Yes, Kara. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes to building a life together that honors both our individual dreams and our shared vision of what's possible."
That night, they called their families and closest friends. Planned a small ceremony for the following spring, something intimate and meaningful rather than elaborate.
But before any of that, they sat on their back porch with wine and takeout Chinese food, admiring the ring and talking about the future they were going to build together.
"I want to keep the garden," Lena said, twirling lo mein around her chopsticks.
"Of course we're keeping the garden. The garden is sacred."
"And I want to keep co-teaching. Even after we're married, I want to maintain our professional collaboration."
"Obviously. The students would riot if we stopped offering the seminar."
"And I want to travel more. Not just for research, but for pleasure. I want to see the world with you when nobody's shooting at us."
"I want that too. I want to show you places I've been for work, but this time as tourists. I want to eat good food and stay in comfortable hotels and take photographs that aren't for newspaper articles."
"And I want children," Lena said quietly. "Not right away, but eventually. I want to raise kids who understand that love enhances capability rather than limiting it."
"I want that too," Kara said. "I want to model for them what it looks like when two people choose each other consistently and build something beautiful together."
"Think we can handle it? Marriage, kids, careers, international travel, garden maintenance?"
"I think we can handle anything as long as we handle it together."
"Together," Lena agreed, raising her wine glass in a toast. "To choosing each other, over and over again."
"To building something that lasts."
They clinked glasses as the sun set behind the tomato plants they'd grown from seeds, surrounded by evidence of what they could nurture when they worked together.
The Pulitzer
The call came at dawn on a Tuesday in April, six months after the engagement, two weeks before their wedding.
Lena's phone buzzed against the nightstand, pulling her from dreams of white flowers and guest lists and whether they'd remembered to confirm the caterer.
"Professor Luthor? This is Maria Santos from the Pulitzer Prize Board."
Lena sat up, immediately alert. Beside her, Kara stirred but didn't wake.
"We're calling to inform you that you and Professor Danvers have been awarded this year's Pulitzer Prize for Public Service, for your investigative series 'Algorithmic Displacement: How Platform Bias Shapes Climate Migration.'"
The words took a moment to penetrate. Pulitzer Prize. Public Service. The series they'd written after Bangladesh, combining Kara's field reporting with Lena's technical analysis to show how social media algorithms inadvertently directed aid resources away from the most vulnerable climate refugees.
"I... thank you. This is incredible."
"Your work has already influenced policy discussions at the United Nations and prompted three major platforms to audit their crisis response algorithms. It represents exactly the kind of public service journalism the award is designed to recognize."
After the call ended, Lena sat in the pre-dawn darkness, trying to process what had just happened.
"Who was that?" Kara asked sleepily.
"The Pulitzer committee."
"What about them?"
"We won."
Kara was suddenly very awake. "What do you mean we won?"
"We won the Pulitzer Prize for Public Service. For the Bangladesh series."
"Are you serious?"
"Completely serious."
Kara launched herself across the bed, tackling Lena in a fierce hug that sent them both tumbling against the pillows.
"We won the Pulitzer Prize," she said, as if testing the words.
"We won the Pulitzer Prize," Lena repeated.
"Two weeks before our wedding."
"Two weeks before our wedding."
"This is the best month ever."
They made love with the celebratory intensity of people who had just received confirmation that their work mattered, that the risks they'd taken and the collaboration they'd built was creating real change in the world.
Later, over coffee and the newspapers they still read every morning despite having digital subscriptions to everything, they talked about what the award meant.
"It validates the approach," Kara said, scrolling through congratulatory emails that had already started arriving. "Proves that interdisciplinary collaboration can produce journalism that's both academically rigorous and accessible to general audiences."
"More importantly, it shows that the work is having impact," Lena replied. "Platform policy changes, UN discussions-that's real-world change stemming from research that might have stayed buried in academic journals if we'd published separately."
"Maya's going to be insufferable about this," Kara said fondly. "She's been telling everyone that studying our collaboration is her unofficial thesis project."
"She's been what?"
"Oh, didn't I mention? Apparently our 'ecosystem' has become required reading in the graduate student informal curriculum. They've created a whole framework for successful academic partnerships based on observing us."
"That's flattering and terrifying."
"It's mostly flattering. They've identified what they call 'The Luthor-Danvers Model' for collaborative research."
"Please tell me they didn't actually call it that."
"They absolutely called it that. Maya showed me their presentation slides."
Lena groaned. "What are the key components of this alleged model?"
"Complementary expertise, shared values, individual autonomy within collaborative structure, and-my personal favorite-'mutual enhancement rather than mutual compromise.'"
"That's actually quite sophisticated analysis."
"They're good students. We taught them well."
"We taught them to think critically and observe carefully. Apparently they've been practicing on us."
The phone rang again-Dr. Martinez from the journalism department, then colleagues from computer science, then reporters wanting quotes about interdisciplinary collaboration and academic couples who work together successfully.
By noon, they'd given six interviews and received forty-seven emails of congratulation.
"This is surreal," Lena said, looking at her inbox. "I think more people have contacted us about winning the Pulitzer together than about getting engaged."
"Professional recognition hits differently than personal milestones," Kara observed. "People understand what a Pulitzer means. Engagement announcements are just... nice news."
"Is it weird that I'm almost as proud of the collaboration as I am of the award itself?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, we built something together that neither of us could have built alone. We created a way of working that produces better research, better journalism, better everything. That feels as significant as any external recognition."
"More significant," Kara agreed. "Awards are nice, but sustainable creative partnership is rare."
"Maya was right about the mutual enhancement thing."
"She was. We make each other smarter, more capable, more creative. That's not something most people find in their careers or their relationships."
"We found it in both."
"We built it in both."
That evening, they celebrated at the same restaurant where they'd had their first official date after Kara returned from Ukraine, where they'd toasted their decision to move in together, where they'd planned their Bangladesh trip.
"We should make this our traditional celebration place," Lena said, raising her wine glass.
"For all major life milestones?"
"For all collaborative achievements. Professional and personal."
"To collaborative achievements," Kara toasted. "And to building something together that keeps getting stronger."
"To choosing each other, even when the world offers other options."
"Especially when the world offers other options."
They clinked glasses, surrounded by the familiar comfort of a place that had witnessed their relationship grow from careful professional reconstruction to deep personal commitment to this moment-recognition that what they'd built together was changing their field and their world.
Not the Wedding
"So let me understand this correctly," Dr. Martinez said, staring at them across his desk with the expression of someone trying to solve a particularly complex equation. "You want to postpone your wedding to go to Syria."
"We want to postpone our wedding to document how social media algorithms are being used to target medical facilities," Kara corrected. "Syria just happens to be where that story is happening right now."
"For three weeks. Starting two days before your scheduled ceremony."
"The opportunity came up suddenly," Lena explained. "Our contact in Damascus has limited window of access, and this could be the definitive piece on algorithmic warfare targeting civilian infrastructure."
"And you couldn't, perhaps, send one of you while the other stays for the wedding?"
Lena and Kara exchanged glances-the kind of wordless communication that had their graduate students taking notes.
"We work better together," they said simultaneously, then looked at each other and laughed.
Dr. Martinez pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your families are going to murder me."
"Our families will understand," Kara said. "Eventually."
"Maya volunteered to manage the vendor cancellations," Lena added. "Apparently she's been planning our wedding as practice for her own event coordination skills."
"Of course she has. That girl has turned observing your relationship into an independent study."
Three days later, they were on a plane to Damascus instead of walking down an aisle in their garden.
"No regrets?" Kara asked as they flew over the Atlantic, both of them surrounded by research equipment and press credentials instead of flowers and wedding attire.
"About missing the wedding or about traveling to an active conflict zone with my fiancée?"
"Both."
"None whatsoever. We were never very traditional anyway."
"True. Traditional couples don't usually bond over algorithmic bias analysis."
"Traditional couples don't usually win Pulitzer Prizes together."
"We should probably actually get married at some point, though."
"Eventually. When we get back. Maybe we'll elope to Vegas and spend the honeymoon writing up our findings."
"God, I love you."
Syria
The hotel room in Damascus was basic-two narrow beds, unreliable electricity, internet that worked sporadically at best. But they'd stayed in worse places, and by now they'd perfected the art of turning any space into a functional research headquarters.
"The targeting algorithm is more sophisticated than we expected," Lena said, looking up from her laptop where she'd been analyzing social media data. "It's not just identifying medical facilities-it's prioritizing them based on patient volume and strategic importance."
"Which explains why the children's hospital was hit first," Kara replied, scrolling through interview notes. "Higher symbolic value, maximum psychological impact."
They'd been working for fourteen hours straight, surviving on strong coffee and the kind of intellectual adrenaline that came from uncovering something important.
The explosion happened at 11:47 PM.
Close enough to rattle the windows of their hotel, distant enough that they weren't in immediate danger. But the sound-that particular combination of impact and destruction-sent both of them diving for cover before their conscious minds had fully processed what was happening.
They found themselves pressed together on the floor between the beds, Kara's arms wrapped protectively around Lena, both of them breathing hard and listening for follow-up attacks that didn't come.
"We're okay," Kara said after a long moment, though she didn't let go. "We're okay."
"That was close."
"Not that close. But close enough."
They stayed on the floor for several minutes, holding each other and processing the reminder that they were in a place where people died suddenly and without warning.
"Kara," Lena said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"What if something happened to us? What if we died here, and we'd never actually gotten married?"
"We're not going to die here."
"But what if we did? What if the next explosion is closer? What if tomorrow's interview goes wrong and we end up in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
Kara pulled back slightly, looked at Lena in the dim light from the street lamp outside their window.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying life is short and unpredictable and I don't want to wait until we get home to promise you everything I want to promise you."
"Lena..."
"I'm saying maybe we don't need a ceremony with flowers and guests and official documentation. Maybe we just need to choose each other, right here, right now, in this terrible hotel room in a city where people are trying to kill each other."
Kara was quiet for a moment, considering.
"You want to get married? Here? Tonight?"
"I want to marry you wherever we are, whenever we can. I want to promise you everything I have to promise, even if the only witnesses are war correspondents and the only chapel is a hotel room with bullet holes in the walls."
Kara smiled-the kind of smile that transformed her entire face.
"Okay," she said. "Let's get married."
They climbed back onto one of the narrow beds, sitting cross-legged facing each other like children sharing secrets.
"We need something to write on," Lena said.
Kara grabbed the International Herald Tribune they'd bought earlier, smoothed it flat between them.
"Vows," she said, pulling a pen from her pocket. "Written on newspaper in Damascus. This is either the most romantic thing we've ever done or the least romantic."
"It's the most us thing we've ever done."
Kara wrote first, her careful handwriting flowing across the margins of an article about European economic policy:
Lena-I choose you in hotel rooms and lecture halls and places where people shoot at journalists. I choose you when you're being impossible about semicolons and when you're being brilliant about everything else. I choose our work together, our life together, our stubborn refusal to be conventional about anything. I promise to keep choosing you until choosing you becomes as automatic as breathing.
She passed the pen to Lena, who wrote around the edges of a story about climate change:
Kara-I choose you over safety, over convention, over every other possible version of my life. I choose the way you make me braver and smarter and more capable of loving well. I choose building something together that's bigger than what either of us could create alone. I promise to follow stories with you to dangerous places and plant gardens with you in safe ones.
They signed their names at the bottom, Kara's signature overlapping with Lena's like their lives had learned to do.
"I now pronounce us married," Kara said solemnly. "By the power vested in me by... surviving this long together."
"You may kiss your wife."
They kissed over the newspaper that held their handwritten vows, surrounded by the sounds of a city at war, officially married in the most unofficial way possible.
"We should probably call our families," Lena said when they broke apart.
"And tell them what? That we got married in Syria using a newspaper instead of a marriage license?"
"And tell them that we couldn't wait anymore. That life is too short and unpredictable to postpone the important things."
"They're going to think we've lost our minds."
"Maybe we have. But we've lost them together."
They made love that night with the desperate intensity of people who had been reminded how fragile everything was, how quickly it could all disappear. But also with the joy of people who had just chosen each other completely, who had created their own ceremony in their own way on their own terms.
Afterwards, lying tangled together in the narrow bed with the newspaper that held their vows spread across the floor, they talked about what being married meant to them.
"It doesn't change anything," Kara said, tracing patterns on Lena's bare shoulder.
"It changes everything," Lena replied. "Not practically, but... symbolically. We're not just building something together anymore. We're bound to each other."
"Bound by handwritten vows on newsprint."
"Bound by choice. The same choice we've been making every day for three years, but now it's official."
"Official according to whom?"
"Official according to us. Which is the only authority that matters."
The next morning, they kept their interview with the doctor who had been tracking the algorithmic targeting of medical facilities. But they conducted it as a married couple, and somehow that felt different-more grounded, more permanent, more like they were building something that would last beyond any individual story or assignment.
By evening, they had enough material for a series that would influence international law and potentially save lives.
"Good work, wife," Kara said as they uploaded their final files to secure servers.
"You too, wife."
"Should we have a honeymoon? Room service and terrible hotel wine?"
"I was thinking something more... celebratory."
They made love again, but this time with the leisurely passion of people who had all the time in the world, who knew they belonged to each other completely and didn't need to rush or prove anything.
"This is definitely not what most couples do for their wedding night," Lena observed afterwards.
"Most couples don't get married in war zones using newspapers as marriage certificates."
"No regrets?"
"About marrying you in the least conventional way possible? None whatsoever."
"Good. Because when we get home, Maya is going to insist on planning some kind of reception."
"Let her. She's been practicing wedding coordination on our relationship for months anyway."
"As long as she doesn't expect us to do the whole ceremony again."
"We're already married. Officially married according to the only authority that matters."
"Each other."
"Each other."
Maya's Perspective: The Pulitzer Announcement
Maya was in the computer lab when Professor Chen burst in with news that would become legend in the graduate student community.
"They won," he announced breathlessly. "Luthor and Danvers. The Pulitzer. Public Service."
Maya looked up from the code she'd been debugging-ironically, analysis software based on methodologies she'd learned from Professor Luthor's classes.
"Are you serious?"
"Completely serious. The announcement just came through official channels."
Maya saved her work and sprinted across campus to the journalism building, taking stairs two at a time to reach the shared office where she knew she'd find them.
She arrived to discover a scene that would fuel graduate student analysis for months: Professor Danvers had clearly just tackled Professor Luthor onto the small couch they kept by the window, both of them laughing and tangled together in a way that was unprofessional and completely unsurprising.
"Professors!" Maya announced herself, knocking on the doorframe. "I heard the news!"
They untangled quickly, though not before Maya noticed that Professor Luthor's hair was completely disheveled and Professor Danvers had lipstick smudged on her cheek.
"Maya," Professor Luthor said, attempting to smooth her hair. "We were just-"
"Celebrating your Pulitzer Prize by making out in your office?"
"Celebrating our Pulitzer Prize by... discussing next steps for our research program," Professor Danvers said, wiping her cheek.
"Of course you were."
Maya settled into the chair between their desks-the same chair where she'd had her first conversation with them about interdisciplinary collaboration, where she'd asked how they made it all work.
"This is huge," she said. "Do you understand what this means?"
"That our research has been recognized by-" Professor Luthor began.
"That you've proven the model," Maya interrupted. "The Luthor-Danvers Model for collaborative academic success. This is the validation every graduate student in the program has been waiting for."
"Maya," Professor Danvers said gently, "we didn't develop our relationship as a model for other people."
"No, but you've become one anyway. Do you know how many graduate students have restructured their thesis committees based on watching how you work together? How many people have started collaborative research projects because you proved it was possible?"
Maya pulled out her phone, scrolled through what appeared to be an extensive document.
"Jessica's developing a joint anthropology-computer science project on algorithmic bias in hiring. David's collaborating with someone from the education school on AI in learning platforms. Sarah's building her entire dissertation around interdisciplinary methodology."
"That's wonderful," Professor Luthor said. "But that's their work, not ours."
"It's their work inspired by your example. You've shown all of us that academic collaboration doesn't have to be competitive, that you can build something bigger together than either person could create alone."
Maya looked at them sitting in their shared office, surrounded by evidence of their joint projects-whiteboards covered with both equations and story outlines, bookshelves that mixed computer science texts with journalism histories, photographs from field research that neither could have conducted independently.
"And now you have a Pulitzer to prove it works."
"We have a Pulitzer that proves the work matters," Professor Danvers corrected. "The collaboration already proved itself worked."
"How?"
"By making us both better at everything we do. Better researchers, better teachers, better people."
"That's what I mean," Maya said excitedly. "That's the model. Enhancement rather than compromise. Individual growth within collaborative structure. Shared values supporting complementary expertise."
"You really have been taking notes," Professor Luthor observed.
"Of course I've been taking notes. You two are the most interesting case study in the department."
"We're not a case study, Maya. We're just two people who figured out how to love each other well while doing work that matters."
"Exactly. And that's why this Pulitzer is so important. It's proof that love doesn't limit professional achievement-it enhances it."
Maya stood to leave, then turned back at the door.
"For what it's worth, we're all really proud of you. Not just for the award, but for showing us what's possible when two people choose to build something beautiful together."
After she left, Lena and Kara sat in their office surrounded by the controlled chaos of their shared academic life.
"Case study," Kara said.
"Model for collaborative success," Lena replied.
"Think we should be flattered or concerned that graduate students are analyzing our relationship?"
"Flattered. Definitely flattered. We've accidentally become proof that academic couples can enhance each other instead of limiting each other."
"And now we have the Pulitzer to prove our approach creates work that matters."
"We have the Pulitzer to prove our love creates work that matters."
"Same thing."
"Same thing."
They returned to their research, but with the knowledge that they'd become something larger than themselves-evidence that collaboration could work, that love could enhance capability, that choosing each other over and over again could create something beautiful that influenced the world around them.
Epilogue: The Garden
Six months later, they did have a ceremony-small and intimate, in their garden on a Saturday morning when the tomatoes were just beginning to ripen and the herbs had spread beyond their original boundaries.
"I take you, Lena, to be my wife and my research partner and my best friend and my favorite person to argue with about comma placement," Kara said, holding both of Lena's hands in the morning sunlight.
"I take you, Kara, to be my wife and my collaborator and my companion in both safe spaces and dangerous places and the person I want to choose every day for the rest of my life," Lena replied.
They exchanged rings among the plants they'd grown from seeds, surrounded by family and friends and the graduate students who had turned observing their relationship into an unofficial area of study.
Maya, serving as unofficial wedding coordinator, had managed every detail with the same precision she brought to research methodology. The result was perfect-simple, meaningful, completely them.
Later, as the sun set behind their thriving garden, they sat on their back porch with leftover cake and champagne, wearing wedding rings and surrounded by evidence of everything they'd built together.
"So," Kara said, admiring her new ring in the evening light. "Married Pulitzer Prize winners with a successful garden and students who've turned our relationship into academic theory."
"Don't forget the Syrian investigation that's influencing international law."
"And the book that comes out next month."
"And the teaching loads that we somehow make feel sustainable because we support each other through them."
"We did good," Kara said simply.
"We did very good."
"What do you want to build next?"
"More of this. More collaboration, more research that matters, more choosing each other even when the world offers other options."
"And maybe some actual vacation time. Somewhere with reliable internet and room service."
"And maybe some actual vacation time," Lena agreed. "Though knowing us, we'll probably end up working on something even while we're relaxing."
"As long as we're working on it together."
"Always together."
They sat in comfortable silence as darkness fell, married now and committed to keep choosing each other, to keep building something that honored both their individual dreams and their shared vision of what was possible when two people enhanced each other instead of limiting each other.
In the garden they had planted with their own hands, surrounded by evidence of what they could nurture when they worked together, ready for whatever stories would call them next.
The End