FOREVER CHOSEN

I had exactly one hour to make it out the door, but the way I moved around my room, I was sure I’d need double that to avoid disaster. The sunlight had barely touched the edges of my cream-colored curtains, but already the golden streaks cut across the room in thin slivers, as if warning me to hurry. My law books lay scattered across the desk, a silent accusation that I hadn’t touched them enough last night, and my bag sat open on the bed like a patient predator waiting for me to stuff it with notebooks, pens, and a lunch I hadn’t even made yet. I glanced in the mirror, tugging at a stray lock of hair that had escaped the loose bun I had hurriedly twisted atop my head. My reflection stared back with a certain stubborn defiance. My skin was fair, the kind that had always made me flush in moments of embarrassment, and today I was flushed before I even stepped outside. My hazel eyes, which I knew were considered “soft” or “sweet” by anyone who dared compliment me, were narrowed with concentration, trying to plan my escape. And my lips, full and habitually pressed together when I was irritated, betrayed the faintest pout as I surveyed the room. I couldn’t afford to be late. Not today. Not for Professor Hensley, who had a reputation that made even the bravest students cower. Rumor had it he didn’t smile, not even once during lectures, and he had a way of calling out students in a tone that could make your entire day disappear into embarrassment. I had no intention of testing his patience today. I could feel my stomach tighten just thinking about being scolded for walking in a minute late, and I would be late if I didn’t start moving now. There was only one more thing I had to avoid before leaving. My parents. My father’s morning routine involved coffee and the newspaper, nothing more dangerous than a polite nod. My mother, however, had already been up for an hour, and I could almost hear the gears in her mind turning even without entering the kitchen. She always started the day thinking about one thing: my marriage. I tiptoed across the room, careful not to trip over the shoes I had left scattered from last week. My reflection in the hallway mirror caught me, and I gave myself a wry look. Twenty-four years old, law student, fiercely independent, and apparently hopelessly single according to my mother’s definition of failure. If she had her way, I would have been married twice by now—once at twenty and again at twenty-two—because according to her, pride didn’t belong to a single woman. Humility and pride, she liked to say, were best measured by a man’s ring on your finger. I had long since decided she was wrong. Marriage wasn’t something you achieved like a promotion, and love wasn’t a trophy you could display on a mantel. At least, not anymore. Not after Jeremy. I swallowed hard, remembering the night I had cried alone in my apartment, realizing that love, or at least the kind I had believed in, could hurt so badly it left permanent scars. He had promised me forever, a forever that lasted a month before he disappeared, leaving only half-truths and my broken trust behind. After that, I had become cautious, skeptical, and more than a little stubborn when it came to men, romance, and any suggestion that I might need a partner to define my worth. I closed the small gap between the hallway mirror and the kitchen doorway, preparing to slip past my parents undetected. If I walked too slowly, my mother would notice the absence of a bright smile, the way my hair wasn’t perfectly styled, or worse, she would question why I wasn’t bringing anyone to the family dinner that night. I wasn’t about to explain to her that my heart was cautious, that my intuition had betrayed me once, and that I didn’t trust it to do so again. As I opened the kitchen door, I paused, taking a careful breath. The smell of brewing coffee hit me first, a scent that usually brought comfort but today carried the weight of expectation. My father sat at the table, newspaper spread wide, glancing up only long enough to mumble a quiet greeting. Safe, for now. My mother, on the other hand, had that look—the one that mixed concern with determination. She glanced at me over her glasses, her eyebrows knitting together slightly, as if she were measuring the exact moment to pounce. I smiled politely, the kind of smile that didn’t give away any emotional weakness, and kept my voice light as I said, “Morning, Mom. Morning, Dad.” “Morning, dear,” my mother replied, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp. “You’re leaving early today?” “Yes,” I said, keeping my pace steady. “Class. You know, the one with Professor Hensley.” She hummed softly, not pushing further, though I could feel her thoughts hovering on that invisible edge. She wanted to ask about my love life, about the prospects, about why I hadn’t yet found a man worthy of the Whitmore name. But I was ready. I had been ready for years. My answers were always polite, firm, and honest. And I wasn’t going to give her false hope. “Not interested, Mom,” I said gently, almost casually, as if brushing away the very idea. “I don’t think I’ll ever get married. At least not soon. You deserve to know that rather than wait around for me to change my mind.” Her lips pressed together. I could see the small sigh that passed between her and the air like a quiet concession. I wasn’t lying. I didn’t think I would ever risk my heart again. Not for anyone. Not unless fate itself decided otherwise. And then, because I had mastered the art of leaving quietly, I slipped past them, careful not to attract more attention. My bag swung lightly over my shoulder, my notes packed just right, and I left the house feeling a strange mixture of relief and dread. Relief for dodging the conversation I knew would come, dread for the long day ahead, and perhaps, if I was honest with myself, a tiny spark of excitement that life always had a way of surprising you when you least expected it. As I stepped outside, the city greeted me with its usual chaos, a mix of car horns, distant chatter, and the soft rustle of wind through the early spring trees. I pulled my coat tighter around me, though it wasn’t cold enough to justify it. It was habit, a small shield against the unpredictability of the world, and against the unpredictable nature of the people in it. The walk to campus was familiar, each step a routine I had repeated so many times I could navigate with my eyes closed. Yet today, the routine felt heavier, loaded with unspoken expectations and old wounds. I reminded myself that I was twenty-four, fully capable, and stubborn enough to survive anything—even parental interference. And so, with the campus in sight and the lecture hall waiting, I squared my shoulders, inhaled deeply, and prepared for the day. Professor Hensley, looming authority, my parents’ concerns, and the ghosts of past heartbreaks would not shake me today. Not if I could help it.