Chapter 22: A Year Measured in Heartbeats
Time did not move forward politely.
It dragged.
Each day stretched itself thin, heavy with unspoken decisions and postponed conversations. The contract hung between us like a clock without numbers—always ticking, never announcing how close we were to the end.
Lucien marked time through meetings and numbers.
I marked it through moments.
The way he paused before leaving each morning, as if checking whether I was still there. The way he brought home food he claimed he "accidentally ordered," always something I liked. The way silence between us grew less defensive and more familiar.
We were learning the shape of each other's presence.
One afternoon, while sorting through old boxes in the storage room, I found the original contract folder. Thick. Precise. Cold.
Dates. Clauses. Exit conditions.
No room for emotion.
I carried it upstairs and placed it on the table.
Lucien noticed immediately. "Why now?"
"Because pretending it's invisible doesn't make it powerless," I said.
He sat across from me, eyes on the folder. "Do you regret signing it?"
I thought carefully. "I regret believing it would keep us untouched."
He nodded. "I believed it would keep us safe."
"And did it?" I asked.
"No," he admitted. "It kept us temporary."
The word stung more than I expected.
That evening, we attended a dinner neither of us could refuse. Old money. Old expectations. Polite smiles sharpened by judgment.
I felt young there—not in years, but in exposure.
"She's brave," someone whispered too loudly.
"She's convenient," someone else replied.
Lucien's hand found mine under the table.
It was a small act.
It felt enormous.
On the drive home, the city lights blurred past the window. "They don't think this will last," I said.
"They don't believe in things without guarantees," Lucien replied.
"Do you?" I asked.
He was quiet for a long moment. "I believe in effort. In choice. In time."
"That's not forever," I said softly.
"No," he agreed. "But it's honest."
Weeks passed.
The pressure outside intensified in subtle ways. Invitations stopped coming. Doors opened slower. Allies began speaking in cautious half-sentences.
But something else happened too.
Our world narrowed—and strengthened.
Mornings became shared routines. Late nights turned into conversations that wandered without purpose and returned with meaning. We argued more freely, laughed more openly, disagreed without fear of rupture.
Love didn't arrive like a revelation.
It arrived like repetition.
One night, after an argument about nothing and everything, Lucien said something that stayed with me.
"If this ends," he said, "it won't be because we failed."
"Then why?" I asked.
"Because time ran out before fear did," he answered.
The next day, I visited the shelter again.
The girl who once whispered about silence stood at the front now, helping others find their voices. She smiled when she saw me.
"You stayed," she said.
"So did you," I replied.
She shrugged. "Staying is loud."
That sentence followed me home.
That night, I brought it up while we sat on the floor, backs against the couch.
"Do you think staying scares them because it proves something?" I asked.
Lucien tilted his head. "What?"
"That power isn't permanent," I said. "But choice is."
He exhaled slowly. "They built systems on expiration dates."
"And we built something on presence," I said.
The contract's midpoint arrived quietly.
No announcement. No drama.
Just a realization that half our year had already been lived.
Lucien noticed first. "Six months," he said.
I nodded. "Feels longer."
"Feels shorter," he corrected.
That night, neither of us slept.
Not because of fear—but because acknowledging time made it real.
In the early hours, he spoke into the dark. "If we had met without the contract—"
"We wouldn't be this honest," I interrupted. "Or this careful."
"Or this brave," he added.
I turned toward him. "Do you wish we had more time?"
He didn't hesitate. "I wish time didn't decide what love deserves."
Morning came with consequences.
A legal notice arrived. Subtle. Strategic. A reminder that the contract's end would not be ignored. That expectations waited patiently.
Lucien read it and set it down.
"They're counting on distance to do the work for them," he said.
"Distance from what?" I asked.
"From you," he replied.
I stood straighter. "Then they don't know me."
"No," he said quietly. "They don't."
That evening, we walked without destination.
No bodyguards. No schedule.
Just streets, footsteps, and the rare freedom of anonymity.
"Do you think people can fall in love without promising forever?" I asked.
"Yes," Lucien said. "I think they do it every day."
"And does it matter if it ends?" I asked.
He stopped walking and faced me. "It matters if it was real."
The words settled between us.
At home, the contract folder still sat on the table.
Unopened.
Unchanged.
But no longer in control.
As I turned off the lights, I realized something that frightened and steadied me all at once.
We were still under time.
Still without promises.
But every day we stayed, we were quietly rewriting what a year could mean.
Not as a limit.
But as a beginning measured in heartbeats.
And somewhere deep inside me, I knew—
No matter how this ended, it would never be empty.
Because we had chosen to live it fully.
One day at a time.