She left the house a little earlier than usual.
Not because of the daycare.
Because of the conversation she had to have.
On the way, she went over her words a few times in her head.
Keep it simple. Be clear. Don't over-explain.
But when she got there, she realized she had nothing prepared.
The manager was sitting behind her desk.
She looked up as Lia walked in.
"Come, sit."
Her tone was neutral.
Lia sat down.
A few seconds of silence.
The manager spoke directly.
"I saw your message."
Lia nodded.
"I wanted to talk about my hours."
The manager rested her hand on the table.
"You want to reduce them."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes. A little."
The manager watched her for a moment.
Not with anger.
With attention.
"Lia, you're one of the reliable ones here."
Lia didn't respond.
"But this place also needs consistency."
The sentence carried weight.
"I know," Lia said quietly. "That's why I don't want to leave completely."
"So what do you want?"
"Fewer hours. But full focus when I'm here."
The manager leaned back slightly.
She thought for a moment.
"I can reduce them a bit."
Lia exhaled slowly.
But the manager continued:
"However, I need to be clear about something."
Lia looked at her.
"If I feel your focus dropping, I'll have to reconsider."
Silence.
It wasn't a threat.
It was reality.
Lia nodded.
"I understand."
When she stepped out of the office,
she didn't feel lighter.
She felt something else.
More real.
She had gained something.
And at the same time, put something at risk.
Back in the room, everything looked the same.
The children were playing.
Laughing.
But for her, nothing felt the same.
Every movement, every sound
felt sharper.
She knew now—
every moment she was here, she had to actually be here.
At midday, when she was alone,
she took out her small notebook.
She started writing.
Numbers.
Expenses.
Income.
The lines came together.
And the result—
was clear.
She would have less money.
For a while.
She stared at the page for a few seconds.
This wasn't just a thought anymore.
It had turned into numbers.
Into something real.
Her phone vibrated.
An email.
From the publisher.
This time, she opened it right away.
We reviewed your rewrite.
Her heart picked up slightly.
She kept reading.
It's better.
She held her breath.
But still not strong enough.
She didn't move.
We need more depth. More clarity in her decisions.
Lia closed her eyes for a moment.
This wasn't just about the text anymore.
It was about her.
She put the phone down.
Looked at her notebook again.
The numbers.
The pressure.
The time.
And now—
more expectation.
That night, she had her next session.
This time, she didn't wait.
"I feel like I'm walking on unstable ground."
The voice on the other end asked,
"What makes it unstable?"
"Nothing feels fixed. Not my time, not my income, not even my work."
"And in that situation, what do you expect from yourself?"
She answered without thinking.
"To make the right decision."
A short pause.
"Maybe the point isn't to make the right decision."
Lia frowned slightly.
"Then what is it?"
"To take responsibility for the decision you make."
The sentence was simple.
But it carried weight.
Lia didn't reply.
But she understood—
she was still looking for a safe choice.
Something without risk.
Something that didn't exist.
After a moment, the therapist said:
"When a new identity is being built,
there's usually a period of instability."
"So this is normal?" Lia asked quietly.
"Yes."
That "yes" was small.
But enough.
After the call, Lia didn't sit for long.
This time, she went straight to her desk.
Opened her laptop.
Pulled up the file.
Marked the sections the publisher had mentioned.
Read them slowly.
She saw the problem.
The character—
was still thinking.
Not choosing.
Lia took a breath.
"So she needs to choose."
She deleted a few lines.
Rewrote a scene.
This time—
the character acted.
Not just thought.
Time passed.
She got tired.
But she didn't stop.
After midnight, she closed her laptop.
And for the first time,
she felt something clearly:
She was no longer stuck in between.
She was choosing.
She lay down.
Her eyes closed.
But one thought stayed:
If I'm going to choose…
I can't do it halfway.
The next morning,
her mind wasn't calm.
But it was clearer.
She picked up her phone.
Looked at it for a moment.
This time,
she didn't hesitate.
She typed a new message.
Not to her manager.
Not to the publisher.
To herself.
"All in, or nothing."
She put the phone down.
She didn't smile.
But for the first time—
her doubt was quieter.