Adeline stared at her laptop screen long enough for the words to stop making sense.
The document was open, cursor blinking steadily in the corner like it was waiting for something she couldn't give it. Her inbox sat minimized, but she could feel it there—full, crowded, expectant. Every email felt urgent. Every subject line sounded like a warning.
She closed the laptop with a quiet click and leaned back against the couch.
Christopher was in the kitchen, humming to himself as he rummaged through the fridge. The normalcy of the sound made her chest tighten. He moved easily through the space, comfortable, relaxed—like the world wasn't asking anything unreasonable of him.
"You want pasta or rice?" he called out.
Adeline pressed her fingers to her temples. "Either's fine."
There was a pause. Then, "That's not an answer."
She forced a smile into her voice. "Pasta. Please."
"Got it."
She listened to the clatter of pots, the rush of running water. Part of her wanted to get up and help, to anchor herself in something physical and uncomplicated. Another part of her—louder, sharper—knew that if she stood up now, she might start talking.
And if she started talking, she might not stop.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
She glanced down without thinking—and froze.
Marshall:
"Did you figure out what the actual deadline was?"
Her heart skipped in a way that annoyed her immediately.
She hadn't expected him to follow up. The meeting the day before had been...contained. Professional. Necessary. They'd ended it cleanly. She'd thanked him, came home , and that had been that.
Apparently not.
She stared at the message for a few seconds too long before typing back.
"I think so. Thursday, not Tuesday. But everything still feels tangled".
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
She found herself holding her breath.
Marshall:
"Do you have ten minutes?"
Her instinct was to say no.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Christopher's voice floated in from the kitchen, talking to himself now, probably about spices or portion sizes. This wasn't secrecy—she wasn't hiding anything—but she was suddenly aware of how private her head felt.
It's just help, she told herself.
She typed back.
Adeline:
"Yes".
Her phone rang immediately.
She answered before she could overthink it.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," Marshall replied. His voice came through steady and clear, stripped of context and presence—and somehow that made it easier. And harder. "You sound tired."
She huffed out a small laugh. "I am."
"Okay," he said. "Let's start simple. Are you in front of your computer?"
She glanced at the closed laptop on the coffee table. "I can be."
"Good. Open the document."
She did, flipping the screen back up and settling into the corner of the couch.
"Now," Marshall continued, "I want you to tell me what you think the problem is."
She hesitated. "That's part of the problem."
"Try anyway."
She exhaled slowly. "I think I'm behind. And I think if I miss something small, it'll unravel everything else."
"Alright," he said. "Now tell me what the problem actually is."
She frowned at the screen. "I don't know."
"That's okay," he said calmly. "That's why we're doing this."
The steadiness in his voice grounded her more than she expected. He wasn't rushing her. Wasn't softening the moment either. Just…there.
Christopher walked past the living room, glanced at her, and raised an eyebrow in silent question.
She mouthed, Just a minute, and he nodded, turning back toward the stove.
"Start reading the document out loud," Marshall said. "From the top."
She did.
At first, her voice sounded tight to her own ears, clipped and defensive, like she was bracing for criticism that never came. Marshall interrupted occasionally—not to correct her, but to redirect.
"Pause there."
"Skip that paragraph."
"That's not relevant yet."
Each instruction was clean. Specific. No wasted words.
She found herself relaxing into the rhythm of it.
"Okay," he said after a few minutes. "See that section you've been rewriting over and over?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"Stop touching it," he said. "It's done."
Her fingers stilled over the keyboard.
"It doesn't feel done," she said.
"That's because you're anxious, not because it's incomplete."
The clarity of the statement startled her.
She laughed softly. "You say that like it's obvious."
"It is," he replied. "You're just too close to it."
She leaned back against the couch, phone pressed to her ear, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
This was dangerous, she realized—not because of what he was saying, but because of how easily she was trusting him to say it.
"You're good at this," she said before she could stop herself.
There was a brief pause on the line.
"I've had practice," Marshall replied carefully.
She wondered what that meant, but didn't ask.
Christopher reappeared with two plates, setting one down on the coffee table in front of her.
"You're still on the call?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "I'll eat in a bit."
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Don't forget," he murmured.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
"I won't," she said.
Marshall heard it all.
He didn't comment.
That restraint—deliberate, intentional—made her throat feel strangely full.
"Okay," Marshall said after a moment. "Here's what you're going to do next."
She straightened slightly.
He walked her through it step by step. What to ignore. What to prioritize. What could wait without consequence. With every instruction, the chaos in her head rearranged itself into something workable.
Manageable.
By the time they finished, her shoulders ached—but in the way muscles did after stretching, not tension.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"You did the work," he replied. "I just helped you see it."
She swallowed. "Still."
Another pause.
"If it starts spiraling again," he said, measured, "write down what you know to be true before you react. Facts first. Feelings later."
She smiled faintly. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," he said. "But it's effective."
They lingered there, neither of them ending the call.
Adeline was acutely aware of how alone she actually was on her side of the line—and how supported she felt anyway.
"I should let you go," she said finally.
"Yes," Marshall agreed. Then, after a beat, "Goodnight, Adeline."
"Goodnight."
The line went dead.
She set her phone down slowly.
Christopher watched her from the kitchen doorway.
"You okay now?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. I think I am."
And that was the truth.
What she didn't say—what unsettled her even as she opened her laptop again—was how strange it felt to regain her footing without him being the one to steady her.
That thought lingered long after she returned to work.