The weeks between accepting Oxford and actually leaving are heavier than I expected.
Not dramatic.
Not volatile.
Just weighted.
Every ordinary moment feels edged with countdown.
Thirty-two days.
Twenty-seven.
Eighteen.
Zara starts keeping track on the fridge calendar.
“Fourteen,” she says one night, circling the number with a Sharpie.
“Please don’t do that,” Marcus mutters.
She grins faintly.
“You said we shouldn’t avoid reality.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to weaponize it.”
She shrugs.
“Feels less scary if it’s visible.”
I understand that.
So I let her circle the days.
Packing happens slowly.
I don’t want to rush it.
Oxford sent an orientation packet thick enough to stun someone with.
Housing assigned.
Research supervisor confirmed.
Office space in a centuries-old b
