The doubt didn't come immediately.
At first, the opportunity felt like a quiet relief — a small confirmation that the changes he was making weren't purely destructive.
That something in him still fit somewhere.
But relief has a way of fading once it stops being new.
What replaced it wasn't fear.
It was uncertainty.
He found himself thinking about the project at odd moments — not with excitement, but with a low-level tension he couldn't quite place.
Not dread.
But not ease either.
It wasn't the work itself that bothered him. The idea was fine. The scope was reasonable. The people involved seemed thoughtful.
So why did it feel heavy?
He stood in the kitchen one evening, staring at the sink longer than necessary.
That had become a pattern.
Not avoidance.
Assessment.
He realized something uncomfortable.
The opportunity had appeared not because he wanted it.
But because he was now the kind of person people approached with unfinished things.
With unclear things.
With things that needed clarity.
That wasn't a role he had chosen.
It was a role that had chosen him.
He didn't know whether he wanted it.
The record stayed silent.
It always did when he needed it most.
He went to the first planning session anyway.
Not because he felt drawn to it.
Because he felt responsible.
The meeting was fine. Calm. Thoughtful. Productive.
Which somehow made it worse.
There was nothing wrong to justify saying no.
No obvious flaw.
No red flag.
Just a quiet sense that he was being pulled slightly off his own path.
He walked back to his desk afterward feeling like he had just agreed to something he hadn't fully consented to.
That night, lying in bed, he tried to imagine himself in this new direction months from now.
Not the external version.
The internal one.
How would it feel to keep being the person people came to with problems?
With gray areas?
With things no one else wanted to own?
He didn't feel dread.
He felt tired.
Not now.
In advance.
The record did not comment.
It never commented on hypotheticals.
Just before sleep took him, the text finally shifted.
Internal resistance detected.
He opened his eyes.
"That's one way to put it," he whispered.
Resistance.
Not fear.
Not avoidance.
Not refusal.
Resistance meant part of him was pushing back for a reason he didn't yet understand.
And that meant the next choice wasn't going to be about right or wrong.
It was going to be about direction.