“Me too.”
“I would make the same race choice again. That does not mean the choice repaired the relationship.”
“I know.”
“I chose one mile, then another. I did not forgive you on the course.”
“I know.”
“I am not fully finished being angry.”
My ribs tightened. I let the reaction remain mine. “Okay.”
Amy studied me. “That answer is different now.”
“I am trying to let okay mean I heard you, not that I am waiting for you to make the feeling disappear.”
She refolded the timeline along its existing crease. “I do not want the old relationship back.”
A gull landed on the rail beside us, inspected our negotiation, and flew away. “Neither do I.”
“The old version allowed race choices to become relationship tests.”
“Yes.”
“Miguel remains my coach. Rose remains your physical-therapy support if she agrees; your physician and therapist retain their own scope. I do not supervise your treatment, and you do not enter my training through informal exceptions.”
“Yes.”
Amy tapped the folded timeline against her knee. “If you choose another race, that choice is yours. If the choice changes our time, money, safety, or shared plans, the information belongs in the relationship before the action.”
“Yes.”
“I may dislike the choice.”
“You are allowed.”
“I may need time when angry.”
“I will ask what contact remains instead of treating distance as a verdict.”
I borrowed the words from the notepad, but they no longer sounded memorized. They sounded like something I had practiced for twelve days.
Amy looked toward the water. “I have work too. I made a system because I was scared. Some of it gathered information. Some of it tried to force an answer I could survive.”
“You never made me register or withdraw.”
“No. But control does not require success.”
“That is an aggressively Amy sentence.”
“It is accurate.”
I smiled. Then let the smile go. “I need something too.”
“What?”
“I do not know how to say it without sounding like I want a clean slate.”
