Promises We Made at Seventeen のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 51 - チャプター 60

(His POV) Support is easy when no one questions it. When it costs nothing. When it’s abstract and private and doesn’t require explanation. I didn’t really understand that until people started asking me what I thought about Arielle’s plans as if her growth required my permission to be legitimate. It started subtly. A comment from a professor after a seminar. A joke from a friend over drinks. A raised eyebrow from someone who thought they knew our story better than we did. “So… are you okay with her leaving again?” “Long-distance forever isn’t realistic, you know.” “At some point, someone has to compromise.” The word compromise followed me for days like a shadow. As if growth was a negotiation. As if love was a ledger. I tried to shrug it off at first. People projected their fears the way they breathed unconsciously, constantly. But one afternoon, the pressure sharpened. I was called into a meeting with my research supervisor someone pragmatic, results-driven, and alle

(His POV) The offer comes disguised as relief. That’s how it always works. I’m halfway through reorganizing my desk when the email lands subject line bland, professional, innocuous enough to be missed if I were rushing. Re: Project Continuity and Role Expansion I already know what it is before I open it. They don’t reach out like this unless they want something and unless they’re prepared to give me just enough to make refusal feel irrational. I read it once. Then again. The language is careful, generous even. We value your contribution. We’d like to ensure long-term stability. There’s potential for advancement, provided expectations are aligned. Aligned. The same word she’d used just days ago. I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the building settling into my bones. This is the moment. Not a crisis. Not a confrontation. A fork. They’re offering security more funding, broader scope, fewer questions about my decisions. All they want in return

(His POV) Refusal doesn’t end the conversation. It just removes the furniture. The reply comes two days after I send my email shorter than I expected, colder than I hoped. We respect your position. We’ll be moving forward with revised staffing. Thank you for your contributions. No counter. No invitation to talk. A door closed cleanly enough to pretend it was mutual. I stare at the screen longer than necessary, waiting for the familiar surge of regret. It doesn’t come. What comes instead is something quieter an awareness that this wasn’t the only room worth standing in. The building feels different that morning. Not hostile. Not unwelcoming. Just indifferent. Colleagues nod. Conversations resume. No one asks questions. That’s how institutions work you exist until you don’t. By noon, I’ve packed my desk. Not dramatically. Not angrily. Methodically. Each item feels like a punctuation mark, not an erasure. As I leave, I think about leverage how we’re taught it belongs

(His POV) Autonomy is louder than I expect. Not in volume no announcements, no applause but in presence. It makes everything I do visible in ways structure once absorbed for me. There’s no institutional frame now, no brand to blend into. Every choice carries my name on it. The collaboration begins with a meeting that feels almost suspiciously simple. No conference room. No agenda printed on heavy paper. Just a table by a window, two cups of coffee, and a woman who doesn’t waste time pretending she isn’t assessing me. “We don’t need you to be neutral,” she says within the first five minutes. “We need you to be honest.” I nod. “Those aren’t always the same.” “They’re rarely compatible,” she agrees. “That’s why this works only if you’re prepared to be seen.” Seen. The word lands with weight. By the end of the meeting, we’ve sketched a framework loose but intentional. No promises of permanence. No artificial timelines. Just shared direction. As I leave, I feel that familiar m

(His POV) Misinterpretation doesn’t knock. It arrives fully formed, carrying confidence it hasn’t earned. I see it first in a headline shared by someone I barely know my name tagged, a quote pulled loose from context, my argument compressed into something sharper, simpler, and far less accurate. I don’t open it immediately. I already understand what’s happened. Visibility has done what it always does when filtered through haste it’s turned nuance into narrative. By the time I read the piece, my jaw is tight. The article isn’t hostile. That’s the worst part. It’s polite, almost flattering. It frames me as a symbol of independence, of dissent, of “quiet rebellion.” It speculates about my motives. My trajectory. My intentions. It gets enough right to feel credible. Enough wrong to be dangerous. I close my laptop slowly, resisting the urge to respond immediately to correct, clarify, defend. I’ve learned that reaction is often what gives distortion its power. Still, the ten