That evening, after a strained group dinner, I retreated to my assigned cabin.
It was a beautiful space—all vaulted wooden ceilings and soft lighting and a small fireplace that crackled invitingly. I built up the fire, needing the primal comfort of the flames, and sat before it wrapped in a blanket, staring into the dancing light.
The day had been exhausting in ways I couldn't fully articulate. Not physically—my immortal body had long since forgotten the meaning of true fatigue. But emotionally, spiritually, I was drained. The constant vigilance, the careful calibration of every word and gesture, the weight of his gaze and the echo of his confusion—it all pressed down on me like the mountain itself.
I thought about what would happen if he rejected the truth. If, after all this, his modern mind simply couldn't accept what his soul already knew. I had seen it happen before, in other contexts—people confronted with evidence that shattered their worldview, retreating into denial because the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.
But Kaelen was different. Kaelen had always been different.
In every lifetime, in every incarnation, he had been the one who questioned, who pushed, who refused to accept easy answers. It was why he had been such a brilliant scholar in one life, such a formidable politician in another, such a successful merchant in a third. His mind was a blade, constantly sharpening itself against the whetstone of the unknown.
If anyone could accept the impossible, it was him.
Comic Relief — The Ringtone
My phone erupted into its now-familiar assault—the unmistakable opening beats of "Poker Face" blasting through the cabin's quiet. P-p-p-poker face, f-f-fuck her face...
Apple had changed the ringtone while we were packing, claiming that "Soda Pop" wasn't delivering the right energy anymore.
"This," she had announced, holding up my phone triumphantly, "is PERFECT. Poker Face. Because you're both playing games. He's pretending he's not interested. You're pretending you're not completely gone for him. And I'm sitting here watching the whole thing unfold like a detective at a poker tournament."
"It's just a ringtone," I had protested.
"It's SYMBOLIC, G. Every time this goes off, you'll remember that you're both putting on faces. Him with his whole "I'm a cold CEO who doesn't care" routine. You with your "I'm fine, everything's fine, I'm definitely not thinking about him 24/7" act. You're both idiots with the world's worst poker faces, and I'm here for it."
I had rolled my eyes but hadn't changed it back. And now, in the quiet of the cabin, the song's pulsating beat seemed almost mocking—a reminder of the game we were all playing.
I grabbed the phone.
Apple: OKAY. Debrief time. You promised. I've been patient. I've been SO PATIENT. I deserve a medal for patience. They should name a virtue after me. "Apple-ience."
Me: It's late.
Apple: IT'S NEVER LATE FOR DEBRIEF. Now spill. What did he wear? Was it the same suit energy? Did he do that thing where rich guys wear casual clothes that cost more than my rent and pretend, they're "relaxing"?
Me: He wore a black sweater. Very simple. Very expensive. Very "I didn't try but I definitely tried."
Apple: OOF. That's DANGEROUS. That's the kind of outfit that makes you think he's approachable when really, he's just as emotionally unavailable as ever. Did he talk to you? Did he look at you? Did he do that brooding thing where he stares into the middle distance like he's contemplating the void?
Me: He talked. We talked. It was... civil.
Apple: CIVIL. There's that word again. G, civil is what you are to my actual grandmother—God bless her soul—every time I drag you to her house for Sunday dinner. "Lovely stew, Mrs. Kowalski." "So flavourful, Mrs. Kowalski." Meanwhile I know for a FACT that stew tastes like someone boiled a shoe in mystery broth and you're just being polite. And then three days later you're texting me from the bathroom like "Apple, I think I'm dying" and I have to explain that no, you're not dying, you just ate Grandma's "special" lamb again. Which I told you not to every time. Civil is LYING to a sweet old lady while your intestines wage war against you. Civil is NOT what you should be with a man who makes your entire existence light up like a Christmas tree. What did he SAY?
I laughed despite myself.
Me: Not much. Asked about my research. Made intense eye contact. The usual.
Apple: The USUAL? G, there is no "usual" with a man who RAN AWAY from you. This is all uncharted territory. We're Lewis and Clark here. We're mapping the wilderness of his emotionally constipated soul.
Me: You're very dramatic.
Apple: I'm VERY accurate. Did he look at you? Like, REALLY look at you? The kind of look that makes you forget your own name?
I hesitated, remembering the intensity of his gaze across the group session, the way his eyes had lingered just a fraction too long.
Me: Maybe.
Apple: MAYBE. She says MAYBE. G, I need you to be more descriptive. I'm working with nothing here. I'm doing detective work with a single blurry photograph and a witness who only speaks in vibes.
Me: He looked at me. A lot. But he also looked away. A lot. It's complicated.
Apple: COMPLICATED IS GOOD. Complicated means feelings. Complicated means he doesn't know what to do with you. Simple means he's already decided. You want complicated. Complicated is where the good stuff happens.
Me: You've watched too many romantic comedies.
Apple: I've watched the RIGHT amount of romantic comedies. There's a difference. Okay, next question—what did YOU wear? Tell me you wore something that made him regret.
Me: The cream sweater. The charcoal pants. The gold bracelet.
Apple: THE GOLD BRACELET. The one from that random flea market in Galway? The one you got from that old Irish woman who kept calling you "a vision" and tried to give you, her cat? G, that bracelet is your SECRET WEAPON. It's vintage, it's mysterious, it looks like it cost a fortune even though you probably paid like ten euro for it. He doesn't stand a chance.
Me: It was twelve euro, and she did try to give me the cat. I still think about that cat.
Apple: OF COURSE YOU DO. You're emotionally constipated about cats too. But focus. The bracelet. It gives you an air of "I have travelled and seen things and I will never fully explain myself to you." Men LOVE that. They're simple creatures. Mystery drives them insane.