I would choose you

My year of rest and relaxation

Saturday morning came soft and gray, the kind of morning that asks you to stay in bed. I lay under the covers for longer than usual, listening to the radiator creak and sigh, watching the fog drift past the corners of the window like ghosts that didn’t know they were dead.

Hannah was still asleep, one arm thrown over her head, the covers tangled around her legs. Her mug from the night before still sat on the desk, a ring of dried chocolate at the bottom.

I thought about what she’d said.

About Nicole.

About the way I looked at her.

And then I thought: maybe I should stop guessing. Maybe I should just go and talk to her.

I dressed slowly, choosing a sweater that made me feel like myself, brushing my hair until it lay flat enough to hide my nerves. I decided to find her after lunch.

The library was quiet that morning, as it always was on weekends. The stained glass above the reading room spilled colors across the floor - blues and ambers, a single flash of red like a cut across the stone. I walked slowly, trying not to overthink it. Trying not to expect anything.

I found her in the far corner, by the windows. Curled in a worn armchair, one leg tucked beneath her, wearing a gray turtleneck and reading a copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation.

Of course.

I had read it too. Last spring, on a long and lonely weekend. I remembered the slow, spiraling detachment of it, the beautiful, dangerous idea of simply choosing to disappear.

I stepped closer.

“What do you think of it?” I asked.

Nicole looked up.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure she recognized me. Then she smiled, genuinely, softly.

“I kind of wish I’d thought of it first,” she said. “The sleeping thing.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You want to sleep for a year?”

“Sometimes,” she said, stretching slightly. “It sounds peaceful. No expectations. Just... quiet.”

I sat in the chair across from her.

“My parents would never allow it,” she added, still smiling.

I tilted my head. “Do they allow anything?”

That made her laugh—just a little. “No. Not really.”

She closed the book on her thumb and looked at me.

“They’re strict,” she said. “Not in a cruel way. Just demanding. They want perfection, nothing less. They never let me go anywhere alone, let me bring friends over, dating was forbidden until I was seventeen, and even then it had to be approved.”

I watched her carefully.

“I always dreamed of running away,” she said. “Of travelling alone, exploring the world and living my life like I want.”

I nodded. “I think I understand.”

“Were your parents like that too?”

“They weren’t that strict,” I said. “But very protective. Overprotective. I was their only child, and they clung to me like I might vanish if they looked away.”

Nicole looked down at the book in her hands.

“I guess we’re both a little overdue for freedom,” she said.

I smiled. “Speak for yourself. I’m practically a rebel. I went to this school by my own choice.”

That made her laugh - really laugh. It wasn’t loud, but it was honest. And for the first time, I didn’t feel intimidated by her.

“I’m done reading for today,” she said, standing. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

“Yes,” I said, almost too quickly. “Yes. I’d like that.”

⸻

We walked along the edge of campus, where the fields met the forest and the fog curled through the grass like smoke. The path wound through a grove of bare trees and opened into a small stone bridge that crossed a stream so narrow it barely made a sound.

We talked about everything.

Books we’d loved. Music we listened to. Her mother’s obsession with pressed linens. My father’s habit of quoting Russian poetry at the dinner table. She told me she used to want to be a painter, but couldn’t stand how her own brushstrokes looked. I told her I once tried to become fluent in French for no reason other than wanting to read Les Fleurs du mal without translation.

She told me her dreams: traveling, living by the sea, writing essays about beauty and sadness, wearing silk for no occasion.

I told her mine: finding something that felt like home.

At one point, she said, “It’s strange we didn’t become friends earlier.”

I glanced at her. “Is it?”

She nodded. “I think I was intimidated.”

“By me?”

“You seem so... untouchable. So sure of yourself.”

I laughed. “You’re the only person who’s ever said that.”

“It’s true,” she said. “You walk like you don’t need anyone.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just looked at the fog rising off the grass and said, “Maybe we’re more alike than we thought.”

We returned in time for dinner.

We entered the dining hall side by side, and I felt something shift in me. Something quiet, something that settled between my ribs and stayed there.

We got our trays and sat with the others. Nicole sat beside me.

Across the hall, I spotted Hannah. She had just come in and looked freshly changed. Her cheeks were pink, but her expression was hard to read. I waited until Nicole turned to talk to Maria, then slipped over to her.

“Well?” I whispered. “How was the lesson?”

Hannah smiled a little, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You were right,” she said softly. “Just a lesson. Nothing more.”

We ate dinner slowly. Nicole leaned close to show me a line in her book, and her hair brushed against my shoulder.

Afterwards, we parted ways in the hallway.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For finding me today.”

That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

I wasn’t confused anymore - not about how I felt. I admired her. I respected her. I wanted to know her. Really know her. The way someone knows their favorite book, not just the words, but the spaces between them.

Maybe that was more than admiration.

Maybe it wasn’t.

All I knew was this: I had found someone who could really understand me.