The ring on Sina's finger was a beautiful, terrifying anchor. It wasn't just a symbol of our commitment; it was a physical manifestation of a new logistical and emotional puzzle we had to solve. How do two people, one of whom resets to a state of near-stranger every morning, actually live together?
Our engagement wasn't announced with a flurry of social media posts. It was announced in a meeting. A "Project Forever," as Zeke immediately dubbed it, held in Dr. Thorne's office via video call, with Sora, a now formidably intelligent neuroscience graduate student, acting as co-consultant.
"Co-habitation presents a significant variable increase," Sora stated, her face a mask of serious concentration on the screen. "The morning re-awakening is a controlled, predictable event in its current state. Introducing a shared sleeping space and the immediate presence of another person upon waking could be… destabilizing."
"She's right," Dr. Thorne agreed. "The first moments of Sina's day are the most vulnerable. She wakes up alone, in a known, safe space, and uses her tools—the notes, the recordings, the sketchbook—to orient herself before contact. Waking up with you already there… we have no data on how her mind will process that. It could be perceived as a threat. The echo in her heart might be drowned out by the primal fear of a stranger in her bedroom."
The clinical, stark reality of their words was a bucket of cold water on my romantic dreams of waking up next to her every day. We weren't just a couple moving in together; we were a science experiment entering a dangerous new phase.
Sina, who had been listening to all this with a quiet, thoughtful expression, finally spoke. "So we need a new blueprint," she said, her voice calm and practical. "We can't just throw out the old architecture. We need to… renovate it."
And so, we began to design our new life with the meticulous care of architects planning a space station.
"Okay, Proposal One," Sina said, pulling a large sheet of paper towards her and starting to sketch. "The two-apartment solution works. Proximity without immediate presence. What if we just… put a door between them?"
We were all intrigued. "A connecting door," I mused. "So we'd have our own spaces, but be connected. The 'Snack Embassy' and the 'Zen Studio' become two wings of the same home."
"Exactly," Sina said, her pencil flying. "I'd still wake up in my space. Alone. With my notes and my map. I'd do the re-awakening ceremony by myself. But then…" she sketched two doors, one on each side of the wall, "…when I'm ready, when I've 'found' you in my head and my heart, I could choose to open the door."
"A conscious, deliberate entry into the shared space," Dr. Thorne murmured, a look of impressed approval on her face. "It preserves the integrity of her morning orientation protocol while allowing for immediate integration once she feels stable. It's brilliant."
It was perfect. It was a physical representation of our entire relationship: a door that only she had the key to, that she had to choose to open every single day.
Finding a place with two adjacent, connectable apartments was a challenge, but with Elara's help and a very confused but accommodating landlord, we found the perfect spot. It was on the top floor of an old, charming building with a shared rooftop garden. For two weeks, our lives were a chaos of contractors, paint fumes, and moving boxes. Zeke was in his element, directing movers and declaring himself the "Foreman of Feelings."
We designed the space with intention. The connecting door was installed between our living rooms. We painted it a deep, calming blue. On her side, it was a simple, unassuming door. On my side, I painted the four-note melody of our song, a faint, ghostly series of notes near the doorknob.
The night before our first "official" morning in the new home, the reality of it all hit me. We stood in the doorway between our two apartments, a threshold between our past and our future. Her side was full of canvases and light. Mine was full of books and the faint, lingering smell of Zeke's experimental cooking.
"Tomorrow morning," I said, my voice quiet, "I won't bring you coffee."
It was the end of a ritual that had defined our lives for years.
"No," she agreed, her hand resting on the new doorknob. "Tomorrow morning… I'll come get it myself."
I went to bed that night with a nervous, electric energy I hadn't felt since the early days. It was a new kind of Day One.
I woke before the sunrise, my heart pounding. I made coffee, my hands a little shaky. Then I just sat in my new living room, on my new couch, and I waited. The sun began to creep through the windows. The silence from the other side of the blue door was absolute.
I had no idea what was happening in there. Was she scared? Confused by the new environment? Was she reading her updated notes, which now included a detailed blueprint of the new apartment layout and the protocol for the blue door?
It was the longest ten minutes of my life. I was fighting every instinct to go to her, to knock, to help her. But the new protocol was clear. I had to wait for her to choose.
And then, I heard it. A soft, almost imperceptible click.
The doorknob turned.
The blue door swung open slowly, and she stood there, framed in the doorway, her hair a messy halo in the morning light. She was in her pajamas, clutching her voice recorder in one hand. The look on her face was one of profound, triumphant discovery. She wasn't the scared, confused girl from her old mornings. She was an explorer who had just found a new continent.
She looked around my living room, at my unpacked boxes and familiar furniture. Then her eyes landed on me, sitting on the couch, holding two mugs of coffee.
A slow, brilliant, victorious smile spread across her face. The re-awakening, done entirely on her own, was complete.
"Hi," she said, her voice full of a warmth that filled my entire apartment. "My name is Sina. The note I left for myself says I'm supposed to marry you."
I let out a shaky, happy laugh, a wave of relief so profound it felt like I could melt. "Hi," I said, standing up. "I'm Kelin. And the note is right."
She walked across the threshold, from her world into mine, and took the coffee I offered her. This was it. Not just a new day. It was our new life. The door was open. And she had been the one to open it.