He was the idol of every young scholar in the country, someone you could admire from a distance but never expect to get close to.
I hadn't imagined he'd be personally overseeing this round of selection.
"Professor Vance almost never gets involved in the selection himself. This time, for whatever reason, he asked to see a few specific candidates' materials—and you're one of them." Professor Hale's voice tightened with barely contained excitement. "Madge, prepare well. This is the best chance you'll ever get."
I nodded hard, my heart hammering.
To be noticed by Dustin Vance was an honor I wouldn't have dared to dream of.
I stepped out of the office, took a deep breath, and deleted the last photo of Les from my phone.
Three years. Done.
From now on, I live for research and for myself. No one else.
Les vanished completely for two weeks.
I found out later, through a colleague, that he'd taken extended leave to go traveling with Michelle.
Every day her feed was a highlight reel: ocean sunrises, amusement parks, five-star restaurants, limited-edition gifts.
Every caption in the same style: "Thank you, Les, for making all my wishes come true."
Each photo was a knife that would have cut straight into the old me.
But now, looking at them, all I felt was calm. Almost amused.
I threw myself into preparing for the selection—practically lived in the lab, buried in literature, crunching data, pulling results together, sleeping three or four hours a night.
When you're that deep in the work, love and all its noise really aren't worth mentioning.
At some point I went back to the burned-out apartment to salvage what I could.
The place was wrecked. Blackened walls, warped furniture.
My foot caught on something hard in the debris. I looked down. A plain-band ring, scorched dull and dark.
I'd saved up for a long time to have it made. Designed it myself, had it custom-ordered.
The night of the fire was our three-year anniversary.
I'd planned to bake a cake at home, hide the ring inside, and propose to Les from across the distance—just the two of us on a video call.
I'd even rehearsed the line: "Les, let's get married. We'll do research together for the rest of our lives and grow old together."
What a joke.
I was choking in smoke and flames, clawing to stay alive—and he was across town, surrounded by flowers and applause, celebrating someone else's birthday.