Nadya, the first time you told me you wanted to be a mother, I froze.

It was after our third date, do you remember? I’d invited you to the art gallery. When you arrived, I played coy, picking up glasses of champagne, greeting guests. I might have even avoided your eyes. You felt important; you reminded me of something I’d wit­­nessed but not yet experienced. Maybe this feeling was superficial—​­a lust for your hair, your smile, the way you moved in that burgundy dress. Maybe it was the way the light caught your arms and danced shadows along your skin. But that sense of your importance deepened with every sentence you spoke, every thought you shared. I wanted to hear every word in every language in your voice. I think I knew, even then, that I could spend lifetimes listening to you.

When I finally mustered the confidence to say something, I overexplained each of my sculptures, nervous. You kept prompting me: “What’s the story behind this one?” and I kept answering.

Afterward, in your apartment, we shared secrets over wine. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else. You went first. You told me you wanted children so casually and with such certainty, as though you could see them fully realized. You made no mention of your part­ner in that vision, and I didn’t ask if you thought it could be me. And though you meant no obligation or pressure by this description of your­ future—​­I balked.

Something in my expression made you laugh and shrug it off, say, “I’m skipping too far ahead.” You pressed your glass to your lips, and while I lifted mine, I didn’t drink. In that moment, I wanted to say so much to you about my ­future—​­our potential future. It wasn’t the right time, though I didn’t know when the right time would be.