Talia first noticed it on a Thursday.
A change in Ezra. Subtle. Like the pause before a breath. A silence where laughter used to live.
He was still kind, still present. Still Ezra.
But his eyes lingered longer on the window after his late-night shifts, as if searching for something just out of reach. Some days, he stayed in his office long after the fellows had gone. And when he came home, there was a weight to his steps she couldn't ignore.
"You okay?" she asked gently, one night as they lay curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smelled of lavender and old pages.
"Just tired," he said, smiling, brushing it off.
But Talia knew better. She always did.
The truth came out in the most Ezra way possible—quiet, unassuming, over a half-eaten dinner of reheated pasta and red wine.
"I got offered an extension," he said, not looking at her.
Talia blinked. "An extension?"
"For another year. They want me to stay."
"Oh." Her voice was steady, but something dropped in her chest. "That's… good?"
Ezra finally looked up. "It's great. It's everything I ever wanted."
"And?"
"I don't know if I still want it."
The silence between them pulsed like a living thing.
Talia set her fork down. "Why wouldn't you?"
He exhaled. "Because staying here means putting my name on something big. Something I've worked toward for years. But every time I think about it, all I see is you. Your face. Your notebook on the desk. The way you look out the window before you write."
She didn't respond, waiting.
"And then I wonder," he continued, "what we're building. And whether we can keep building it if I stay longer here, if you keep waiting."
Talia leaned back in her chair. "I don't want to be the reason you give up your dreams."
"You're not," Ezra said softly. "But I think maybe... my dreams are changing."
That night, after he fell asleep, Talia couldn't.
She walked to the little desk by the window, opened her notebook, and wrote something she hadn't dared say aloud.
There's a version of us I don't want to lose. The version that believes in love, but also in balance. In choices made without resentment. In growing up without growing apart.
She tore the page out, folded it twice, and tucked it into the pocket of his coat.
Ezra found it the next day, standing outside the research building, coffee in one hand, her letter in the other.
The wind blew softly around him. The sun hadn't fully risen. Geneva was quiet, as if waiting for something.
He read the note three times.
Then he took out his phone, texted her.
Ezra: Come to the rooftop. The one near the university. Now.
Talia stared at the message. Confused. Curious.
She pulled on a coat and walked.
The rooftop was empty when she got there, the city stretched in gray and gold before her, spires and river below.
Then Ezra appeared from the stairwell, cheeks pink from the cold, a small smile on his lips.
"I used to come here when I was trying to figure things out," he said, walking toward her. "And today I realized something."
She raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"
"I don't want to keep chasing a version of success that doesn't include you in it. You're not a chapter in my story, Talia. You're the co-author."
Talia's heart flipped. "Ezra…"
"I'm turning it down," he said simply. "The extension."
"You don't have to do that for me."
"I'm not. I'm doing it for us."
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"You're crazy."
"Probably."
Then she kissed him.
And there, on that rooftop, with the sky stretching out in all directions, they promised not perfection, not certainty, but something braver:
To keep choosing one another.
Every single day.