The last week of October had a quality of accumulation.
Ha-eun was finishing the hardest three-week stretch of the rotation, the one her senior residents had warned about, where the cases came faster and more complex and the evaluations were more searching and the margin for hesitation was smaller than she had grown accustomed to in the first year. She was tired in the specific way of useful tiredness: her capacity was being built rather than depleted.
Do-hyun was finishing the assessment phase of his placement project, the portion that required site visits and data collection and the kind of sustained attention that was his particular strength. He was gone early and home late on weekdays, and on the evenings they had together he was present but at a lower resolution than usual, the specific quality of someone giving most of their available concentration to something outside the room.
She recognized this quality. She had seen it in herself during the investigation's most intensive periods. She did not take it personally. She gave him the space of it and brought the parts of herself that didn't require his full attention.
On Wednesday evening she tried the first-draft version again.
She came over with nothing prepared, no coherent observation, just a feeling she had been carrying from the rotation that was more in the body than in the mind, a residue from a case that had concluded well but had left her with something she didn't understand. She sat on his floor and said: "I'm carrying something I can't name. I wanted to bring it here before I figured out what it was."
He set down what he was working on and turned toward her.
She described what she could describe: the case, the ending, the thing that remained.
He listened. He did not try to name it before she did. He just listened with the quality of attention that was his particular gift, the kind that received entirely.
She talked for twenty minutes and at the end she understood: she was carrying the weight of a patient who had died with things unsaid between herself and her family, a death that had been clinically managed well and humanly mishandled, and the mishandling had been in the framing of the conversation she'd had with the family, and she had not noticed until twenty minutes of talking it through.
She said: "I understand now."
He said: "What is it."
She told him. He nodded. She felt lighter.
She thought: yes.
She thought: this is what the first draft does.
She thought: yes.
---
On Thursday evening they were in his apartment after dinner when he said: "I want to tell you something."
She looked up.
He said: "I've been thinking about a question that I've been circling since the summer. I keep arriving at the same place and I don't know what to do with it."
She said: "Tell me."
He was quiet for a moment. He said: "I don't know if I can love someone without understanding them."
She waited.
He said: "Everything I have with you came from understanding first. I knew you before I loved you. Or I understood you before I knew that what I felt was love." He looked at his hands. "And I keep wondering: is that love, or is it understanding that became love, and would I know how to do the thing where the love comes first and the understanding comes after."
She heard this and did not respond immediately.
She thought about Ch.30, the balcony, the question she had asked from her own fear and redirected in the morning. She thought about the form of this question: it was different. This was him asking something about his own capacity rather than about the relationship. This was him inside a genuine uncertainty about how he was built.
She said: "Why does it matter which one came first."
He said: "Because I don't know if the love would be there without the understanding. And if it wouldn't, then what I have is not love, it's a form of deep knowing that feels like love."
She said: "Do you think those are different."
He said: "I don't know. That's the question."
She looked at him. She thought: he is asking a real question. Not a rhetorical one, not a way of raising something about them, but a genuine uncertainty about his own interior.
She said: "I think most love comes from knowing. I don't think there's a version that precedes understanding entirely. You have to know someone before the love is specific to them rather than generic."
He said: "But there are people who love in a way that is willing to be surprised. To be with someone and encounter things they didn't expect and love the unexpected parts too. I don't know if I can do that."
She thought about this carefully.
She said: "Why do you think you can't."
He said: "Because everything I've felt strongly about in my life, I've felt strongly about because I understood it. The work. My father. You." He looked at her. "I've never felt strongly about something I didn't understand."
She said: "That might not be a limitation. That might be how you're made."
He said: "It might be. But it raises the question of whether the love is contingent on the understanding. Whether, if something happened that I couldn't understand, the feeling would survive."
She was quiet for a long moment.
She thought: he is asking whether his love for me is stable.
She thought: no. He is asking whether his capacity to love is stable in the absence of understanding.
She thought: those are different questions.
She said: "You love your father."
He looked at her.
She said: "You love him and you don't understand everything about what he did and why. You've been sitting with things about him that you can't fully explain. And you still went back."
He was quiet.
She said: "I think that might be your answer."
He looked at her for a long moment. He said: "That's a good observation."
She said: "It's also not mine to give you. You have to arrive at it."
He said: "I know." He looked out the window. "I'm still arriving at it."
She said: "I know."
She thought: yes.
She thought: I am not going to close this for him.
She thought: it is his to close.
She thought: yes.
She went home and thought about the question he had been carrying, about whether love could survive the absence of understanding, and she thought about herself, who had been deciding for most of the year that she understood him and had been learning, gradually, that understanding was not the same as presence, that you could know someone very well and still not be fully with them.
She thought: we are circling the same question from different angles.
She thought: yes.
She thought: that is not a problem.
She thought: it is the specific work of being with each other at this particular time.
She thought: yes.
She knocked on the wall. Three. Three back.
She fell asleep.
She thought: we are still here.
She thought: yes.
She thought: still here.
---
She thought about his question for the rest of the week.
Not as a problem requiring a solution, but as a thing he had said that she wanted to sit with fully before she did anything with. She had learned not to rush the sitting-with-fully phase. Good things took time to settle into their correct shape.
She thought about the question: can you love without understanding. She thought about it not as a philosophical proposition but as a practical question about his specific interior, and she thought: he has always loved from understanding. That is his mechanism. The love and the knowing arrive together, or the knowing opens the door and the love walks through it.
She thought: is that contingent love or is it simply his form of love.
She thought about contingent love, which was love that required conditions to sustain itself, versus love that was unconditional, which sustained itself regardless of what the other person did or became. She thought: these categories were probably not as clean as they sounded. Most love had conditions. The question was which conditions, and whether those conditions could be met.
She thought: his condition is understanding.
She thought: he needs to be able to understand in order to love.
She thought: is that a problem.
She thought about herself and what her conditions were. She had thought a lot about her own patterns: the being-needed pattern, the observing pattern, the curating-what-she-presented pattern. She had been thinking about what she required to love and what she required to feel loved. She had been thinking about her own conditions.
She thought: my condition is safety.
She thought: I need to feel that my presence is not conditional on my usefulness.
She thought: that is what I have been working toward all year.
She thought: and his condition is understanding.
She thought: and the question he is asking himself is whether his love can survive the encounter with things about me he can't understand.
She thought: I should probably tell him that I have conditions too.
She went to his apartment on Friday evening and, in the specific quiet of the end of the week, she said: "I've been thinking about what you said on Thursday."
He said: "About understanding."
She said: "Yes. And I want to tell you something about my own version."
He looked at her.
She said: "I have conditions too. I need to feel that I'm allowed to be here regardless of what I contribute. That the presence isn't contingent on my usefulness. That's my condition. And I've been working on it all year." She looked at him. "I'm telling you because you said yours and I think you should know mine too."
He was quiet for a moment.
He said: "I know you have it. I've watched you work on it."
She said: "I know you've watched. But I don't know if you knew what the condition was specifically."
He said: "Not in those words."
She said: "Now you do."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "Both of our conditions are real. Both of them are things we're working on. And I think the question of whether we can love each other despite and through our conditions is the question we're actually in."
He looked at her steadily.
He said: "Yes."
She said: "I don't think the answer is no."
He said: "Neither do I."
She said: "But I think we're still finding out."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "Together."
He said: "Yes."
She thought: yes.
She thought: this is the honest version.
She thought: this is what it looks like to be in the thing and look at it clearly.
She thought: yes.
She went home and knocked on the wall and got three knocks back and thought about conditions and love and what the finding-out looked like in practice, and she thought: this is the finding-out.
She thought: every conversation like this one is the finding-out.
She thought: yes.
She thought: I want to keep finding out.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep.
In the morning she woke with the particular clarity that sometimes came after something difficult had been said and received: the clarity of having been honest and still being here, still present, still in it.
She thought: still here.
She thought: yes.
She got up and went to rotation and worked well and came home and was tired and knocked on the wall and got three knocks back, and this was enough. This was what enough looked like: the wall and the knocks and the fact of being adjacent to someone who was finding out the same things at the same time, from different starting points, in their own specific way.
She thought: yes.
She thought: this is enough.
She thought: for now.
She thought: yes.
---
She talked to Na-ri about it at the beginning of November.
Not the specifics, not Do-hyun's question about love and understanding, but the general shape of it: how to be with someone who is examining something fundamental about their own capacity.
Na-ri listened. She said: "What are you afraid of."
Ha-eun thought. She said: "That the examination leads somewhere that changes things."
Na-ri said: "Changes them how."
She said: "I don't know. That's what I'm afraid of. I don't know where his examination is going and I can't predict it because it's genuinely his and I have no more information than he does."
Na-ri said: "That sounds right."
Ha-eun said: "It doesn't feel right. It feels like not having enough."
Na-ri said: "Being with someone means not having enough information to predict where they'll go. If you had enough information to predict it, you'd be watching rather than being with them."
Ha-eun sat with this.
She thought about the watching-versus-accompanying distinction and how it appeared in a new form here: trying to predict where he was going was a form of watching. Being with him in the not-knowing of where he was going was a form of accompanying.
She said: "I need to stop trying to predict."
Na-ri said: "Yes."
She said: "And just be here while he finds out."
Na-ri said: "Yes."
She thought about what that looked like in practice. She thought about the Friday conversation where she had named her own condition and he had received it and they had said yes to each other. She thought about the quality of that yes: not a resolution, not a prediction, just a mutual acknowledgment that they were still in it and still willing.
She thought: that is what being here looks like.
She thought: not predicting. Not managing the outcome. Just: still here.
She thought: yes.
She went to the evaluation that afternoon and worked with Na-ri on a complex scenario and thought about all the things you could not predict in an emergency room and how the skill was not prediction but response, being ready for whatever came rather than having already anticipated it.
She thought: that is the skill in love too.
She thought: readiness rather than prediction.
She thought: yes.
She went home and thought about readiness. She thought about what it would take to be ready for wherever his examination led, ready to receive the outcome rather than to steer toward the one she preferred.
She thought: that requires trust.
She thought: not trust that it will go the way I want. Trust that whatever it is, we can look at it.
She thought: I have that trust.
She thought: I think I do.
She thought: I am going to find out.
She knocked on the wall.
Three knocks back.
She thought: still here.
She thought: yes.
She thought: still here is enough.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep with the question still open and did not close it and did not try to.
---
On Wednesday he came to her door at nine in the evening without texting first.
She opened it. He said: "I thought about what you said. About my father."
She stepped back. He came in.
He sat at her kitchen table, in the seat that had become the one he occupied in her kitchen, and she made tea because it was nine in the evening and tea was what you made at nine in the evening, and she set cups on the table and sat across from him.
He said: "You were right. I've been sitting with the times this year when I've had to hold something about him that I couldn't understand, and I've been trying to locate what I felt in those moments. And the thing I felt was not the absence of love. It was the presence of love alongside the absence of understanding."
She received this.
He said: "It's a different texture. Love without understanding has a different quality than love with it. It's less comfortable. More exposed. But it's still there."
She said: "Yes."
He said: "So I think I can do it. I think the question was answerable and I've been answering it without realizing I was."
She thought about a year of him with his father, the visits and the grief and the processing and the decision to keep talking to him despite the things he couldn't reconcile. She thought: he has been doing the experiment for months. He just didn't know it was the experiment.
She said: "You have been."
He said: "Yes." He looked at his tea. "I wanted to tell you because it changes the answer to the question I was asking."
She said: "Which changes what."
He was quiet for a moment. He said: "The question I was asking was whether my love for you was contingent on being able to understand you. And I think the answer is no. But I also think there are things about us that I'm still trying to understand. And the process of trying to understand them is ongoing."
She said: "Yes."
He said: "I wanted to name that. Not as a warning. Just as information."
She said: "I know you're in a process. I'm in one too."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "The process is what we're in together."
He said: "Yes."
She thought: yes.
She thought: that is exactly what this is.
She thought: we are in the process together.
She thought: and we are still here.
She thought: yes.
He finished his tea and went back to his apartment, and she sat at the kitchen table for a while after, looking at the two cups and the quiet table and the city outside her window, and she thought about all the things that had been said this autumn and all the things that were still being worked through.
She thought: we have been very honest with each other.
She thought: more honest than I knew how to be at the beginning of the year.
She thought: more honest than I knew it was possible to be.
She thought: yes.
She knocked on the wall.
Three knocks back.
She went to bed.
She thought: the process.
She thought: yes.
She thought: together.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep thinking about what it meant to be in a process with someone, not on parallel tracks working independently but genuinely in it together, and she thought: this is what she had wanted when she wanted to be with him.
She thought: not the finished version.
She thought: the process version.
She thought: yes.
You've reached the end of this chapter
The last week of October had a quality of accumulation.
Ha-eun was finishing the hardest three-week stretch of the rotation, the one her senior residents had warned about, where the cases came faster and more complex and the evaluations were more searching and the margin for hesitation was smaller than she had grown accustomed to in the first year. She was tired in the specific way of useful tiredness: her capacity was being built rather than depleted.
Do-hyun was finishing the assessment phase of his placement project, the portion that required site visits and data collection and the kind of sustained attention that was his particular strength. He was gone early and home late on weekdays, and on the evenings they had together he was present but at a lower resolution than usual, the specific quality of someone giving most of their available concentration to something outside the room.
She recognized this quality. She had seen it in herself during the investigation's most intensive periods. She did not take it personally. She gave him the space of it and brought the parts of herself that didn't require his full attention.
On Wednesday evening she tried the first-draft version again.
She came over with nothing prepared, no coherent observation, just a feeling she had been carrying from the rotation that was more in the body than in the mind, a residue from a case that had concluded well but had left her with something she didn't understand. She sat on his floor and said: "I'm carrying something I can't name. I wanted to bring it here before I figured out what it was."
He set down what he was working on and turned toward her.
She described what she could describe: the case, the ending, the thing that remained.
He listened. He did not try to name it before she did. He just listened with the quality of attention that was his particular gift, the kind that received entirely.
She talked for twenty minutes and at the end she understood: she was carrying the weight of a patient who had died with things unsaid between herself and her family, a death that had been clinically managed well and humanly mishandled, and the mishandling had been in the framing of the conversation she'd had with the family, and she had not noticed until twenty minutes of talking it through.
She said: "I understand now."
He said: "What is it."
She told him. He nodded. She felt lighter.
She thought: yes.
She thought: this is what the first draft does.
She thought: yes.
---
On Thursday evening they were in his apartment after dinner when he said: "I want to tell you something."
She looked up.
He said: "I've been thinking about a question that I've been circling since the summer. I keep arriving at the same place and I don't know what to do with it."
She said: "Tell me."
He was quiet for a moment. He said: "I don't know if I can love someone without understanding them."
She waited.
He said: "Everything I have with you came from understanding first. I knew you before I loved you. Or I understood you before I knew that what I felt was love." He looked at his hands. "And I keep wondering: is that love, or is it understanding that became love, and would I know how to do the thing where the love comes first and the understanding comes after."
She heard this and did not respond immediately.
She thought about Ch.30, the balcony, the question she had asked from her own fear and redirected in the morning. She thought about the form of this question: it was different. This was him asking something about his own capacity rather than about the relationship. This was him inside a genuine uncertainty about how he was built.
She said: "Why does it matter which one came first."
He said: "Because I don't know if the love would be there without the understanding. And if it wouldn't, then what I have is not love, it's a form of deep knowing that feels like love."
She said: "Do you think those are different."
He said: "I don't know. That's the question."
She looked at him. She thought: he is asking a real question. Not a rhetorical one, not a way of raising something about them, but a genuine uncertainty about his own interior.
She said: "I think most love comes from knowing. I don't think there's a version that precedes understanding entirely. You have to know someone before the love is specific to them rather than generic."
He said: "But there are people who love in a way that is willing to be surprised. To be with someone and encounter things they didn't expect and love the unexpected parts too. I don't know if I can do that."
She thought about this carefully.
She said: "Why do you think you can't."
He said: "Because everything I've felt strongly about in my life, I've felt strongly about because I understood it. The work. My father. You." He looked at her. "I've never felt strongly about something I didn't understand."
She said: "That might not be a limitation. That might be how you're made."
He said: "It might be. But it raises the question of whether the love is contingent on the understanding. Whether, if something happened that I couldn't understand, the feeling would survive."
She was quiet for a long moment.
She thought: he is asking whether his love for me is stable.
She thought: no. He is asking whether his capacity to love is stable in the absence of understanding.
She thought: those are different questions.
She said: "You love your father."
He looked at her.
She said: "You love him and you don't understand everything about what he did and why. You've been sitting with things about him that you can't fully explain. And you still went back."
He was quiet.
She said: "I think that might be your answer."
He looked at her for a long moment. He said: "That's a good observation."
She said: "It's also not mine to give you. You have to arrive at it."
He said: "I know." He looked out the window. "I'm still arriving at it."
She said: "I know."
She thought: yes.
She thought: I am not going to close this for him.
She thought: it is his to close.
She thought: yes.
She went home and thought about the question he had been carrying, about whether love could survive the absence of understanding, and she thought about herself, who had been deciding for most of the year that she understood him and had been learning, gradually, that understanding was not the same as presence, that you could know someone very well and still not be fully with them.
She thought: we are circling the same question from different angles.
She thought: yes.
She thought: that is not a problem.
She thought: it is the specific work of being with each other at this particular time.
She thought: yes.
She knocked on the wall. Three. Three back.
She fell asleep.
She thought: we are still here.
She thought: yes.
She thought: still here.
---
She thought about his question for the rest of the week.
Not as a problem requiring a solution, but as a thing he had said that she wanted to sit with fully before she did anything with. She had learned not to rush the sitting-with-fully phase. Good things took time to settle into their correct shape.
She thought about the question: can you love without understanding. She thought about it not as a philosophical proposition but as a practical question about his specific interior, and she thought: he has always loved from understanding. That is his mechanism. The love and the knowing arrive together, or the knowing opens the door and the love walks through it.
She thought: is that contingent love or is it simply his form of love.
She thought about contingent love, which was love that required conditions to sustain itself, versus love that was unconditional, which sustained itself regardless of what the other person did or became. She thought: these categories were probably not as clean as they sounded. Most love had conditions. The question was which conditions, and whether those conditions could be met.
She thought: his condition is understanding.
She thought: he needs to be able to understand in order to love.
She thought: is that a problem.
She thought about herself and what her conditions were. She had thought a lot about her own patterns: the being-needed pattern, the observing pattern, the curating-what-she-presented pattern. She had been thinking about what she required to love and what she required to feel loved. She had been thinking about her own conditions.
She thought: my condition is safety.
She thought: I need to feel that my presence is not conditional on my usefulness.
She thought: that is what I have been working toward all year.
She thought: and his condition is understanding.
She thought: and the question he is asking himself is whether his love can survive the encounter with things about me he can't understand.
She thought: I should probably tell him that I have conditions too.
She went to his apartment on Friday evening and, in the specific quiet of the end of the week, she said: "I've been thinking about what you said on Thursday."
He said: "About understanding."
She said: "Yes. And I want to tell you something about my own version."
He looked at her.
She said: "I have conditions too. I need to feel that I'm allowed to be here regardless of what I contribute. That the presence isn't contingent on my usefulness. That's my condition. And I've been working on it all year." She looked at him. "I'm telling you because you said yours and I think you should know mine too."
He was quiet for a moment.
He said: "I know you have it. I've watched you work on it."
She said: "I know you've watched. But I don't know if you knew what the condition was specifically."
He said: "Not in those words."
She said: "Now you do."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "Both of our conditions are real. Both of them are things we're working on. And I think the question of whether we can love each other despite and through our conditions is the question we're actually in."
He looked at her steadily.
He said: "Yes."
She said: "I don't think the answer is no."
He said: "Neither do I."
She said: "But I think we're still finding out."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "Together."
He said: "Yes."
She thought: yes.
She thought: this is the honest version.
She thought: this is what it looks like to be in the thing and look at it clearly.
She thought: yes.
She went home and knocked on the wall and got three knocks back and thought about conditions and love and what the finding-out looked like in practice, and she thought: this is the finding-out.
She thought: every conversation like this one is the finding-out.
She thought: yes.
She thought: I want to keep finding out.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep.
In the morning she woke with the particular clarity that sometimes came after something difficult had been said and received: the clarity of having been honest and still being here, still present, still in it.
She thought: still here.
She thought: yes.
She got up and went to rotation and worked well and came home and was tired and knocked on the wall and got three knocks back, and this was enough. This was what enough looked like: the wall and the knocks and the fact of being adjacent to someone who was finding out the same things at the same time, from different starting points, in their own specific way.
She thought: yes.
She thought: this is enough.
She thought: for now.
She thought: yes.
---
She talked to Na-ri about it at the beginning of November.
Not the specifics, not Do-hyun's question about love and understanding, but the general shape of it: how to be with someone who is examining something fundamental about their own capacity.
Na-ri listened. She said: "What are you afraid of."
Ha-eun thought. She said: "That the examination leads somewhere that changes things."
Na-ri said: "Changes them how."
She said: "I don't know. That's what I'm afraid of. I don't know where his examination is going and I can't predict it because it's genuinely his and I have no more information than he does."
Na-ri said: "That sounds right."
Ha-eun said: "It doesn't feel right. It feels like not having enough."
Na-ri said: "Being with someone means not having enough information to predict where they'll go. If you had enough information to predict it, you'd be watching rather than being with them."
Ha-eun sat with this.
She thought about the watching-versus-accompanying distinction and how it appeared in a new form here: trying to predict where he was going was a form of watching. Being with him in the not-knowing of where he was going was a form of accompanying.
She said: "I need to stop trying to predict."
Na-ri said: "Yes."
She said: "And just be here while he finds out."
Na-ri said: "Yes."
She thought about what that looked like in practice. She thought about the Friday conversation where she had named her own condition and he had received it and they had said yes to each other. She thought about the quality of that yes: not a resolution, not a prediction, just a mutual acknowledgment that they were still in it and still willing.
She thought: that is what being here looks like.
She thought: not predicting. Not managing the outcome. Just: still here.
She thought: yes.
She went to the evaluation that afternoon and worked with Na-ri on a complex scenario and thought about all the things you could not predict in an emergency room and how the skill was not prediction but response, being ready for whatever came rather than having already anticipated it.
She thought: that is the skill in love too.
She thought: readiness rather than prediction.
She thought: yes.
She went home and thought about readiness. She thought about what it would take to be ready for wherever his examination led, ready to receive the outcome rather than to steer toward the one she preferred.
She thought: that requires trust.
She thought: not trust that it will go the way I want. Trust that whatever it is, we can look at it.
She thought: I have that trust.
She thought: I think I do.
She thought: I am going to find out.
She knocked on the wall.
Three knocks back.
She thought: still here.
She thought: yes.
She thought: still here is enough.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep with the question still open and did not close it and did not try to.
---
On Wednesday he came to her door at nine in the evening without texting first.
She opened it. He said: "I thought about what you said. About my father."
She stepped back. He came in.
He sat at her kitchen table, in the seat that had become the one he occupied in her kitchen, and she made tea because it was nine in the evening and tea was what you made at nine in the evening, and she set cups on the table and sat across from him.
He said: "You were right. I've been sitting with the times this year when I've had to hold something about him that I couldn't understand, and I've been trying to locate what I felt in those moments. And the thing I felt was not the absence of love. It was the presence of love alongside the absence of understanding."
She received this.
He said: "It's a different texture. Love without understanding has a different quality than love with it. It's less comfortable. More exposed. But it's still there."
She said: "Yes."
He said: "So I think I can do it. I think the question was answerable and I've been answering it without realizing I was."
She thought about a year of him with his father, the visits and the grief and the processing and the decision to keep talking to him despite the things he couldn't reconcile. She thought: he has been doing the experiment for months. He just didn't know it was the experiment.
She said: "You have been."
He said: "Yes." He looked at his tea. "I wanted to tell you because it changes the answer to the question I was asking."
She said: "Which changes what."
He was quiet for a moment. He said: "The question I was asking was whether my love for you was contingent on being able to understand you. And I think the answer is no. But I also think there are things about us that I'm still trying to understand. And the process of trying to understand them is ongoing."
She said: "Yes."
He said: "I wanted to name that. Not as a warning. Just as information."
She said: "I know you're in a process. I'm in one too."
He said: "Yes."
She said: "The process is what we're in together."
He said: "Yes."
She thought: yes.
She thought: that is exactly what this is.
She thought: we are in the process together.
She thought: and we are still here.
She thought: yes.
He finished his tea and went back to his apartment, and she sat at the kitchen table for a while after, looking at the two cups and the quiet table and the city outside her window, and she thought about all the things that had been said this autumn and all the things that were still being worked through.
She thought: we have been very honest with each other.
She thought: more honest than I knew how to be at the beginning of the year.
She thought: more honest than I knew it was possible to be.
She thought: yes.
She knocked on the wall.
Three knocks back.
She went to bed.
She thought: the process.
She thought: yes.
She thought: together.
She thought: yes.
She fell asleep thinking about what it meant to be in a process with someone, not on parallel tracks working independently but genuinely in it together, and she thought: this is what she had wanted when she wanted to be with him.
She thought: not the finished version.
She thought: the process version.
She thought: yes.
You've reached the end of this chapter