A pause, then his voice softened. "Of course it is. The car will be there at ten. Everything's arranged."
"My parents have been..." I trailed off, unsure how to explain the suffocating intensity of the past week.
"Difficult?" he suggested with a sigh.
"Unbearable," I admitted, the word barely audible even to my own ears. "They've been planning every minute, every detail. It's like they're shipping off a prized possession and need to make sure the packaging is perfect."
Julian's sigh carried through the phone, a warm sound that somehow made me feel less alone. "I'm sorry. We knew it would be intense, but that doesn't make it easier to endure."
"It's fine," I said automatically, then caught myself. "Actually, no. It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine." The admission felt dangerous and freeing all at once.
"No, it's not," Julian agreed, his voice carrying an edge of controlled anger. "But it's almost over. Twelve more hours, and you'll be walking through our front door."
I closed my eyes, letting his voice wash over me. "What if I'm not what you expect? Once I'm there, living with you all?"
"We don't have expectations," he replied, his tone softening.
"That's not true," I said, surprising myself with my boldness. "Everyone has expectations."
A soft chuckle came through the phone. "Fair enough. Let me rephrase. We expect you to be yourself—whoever that is. The person beneath all that conditioning. And we expect to give you the space to figure that out."
"I'm not sure I know who that is anymore," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
"That's part of the journey," Julian replied. "Finding yourself. And you won't be doing it alone."
I gazed out the window at the manicured gardens below, silvered by moonlight. Gardens I'd walked countless times but never been allowed to alter or tend myself. Everything in my life had been decided for me, controlled, arranged for maximum effect.
"Are you still there?" Julian asked after my prolonged silence.
"Yes…I'm here," I whispered, pressing the phone closer to my ear. "Just... thinking about tomorrow."
"Are you having second thoughts?" His tone wasn't accusatory, just gently concerned.
"No," I said quickly, then paused. "Maybe not second thoughts exactly. More like... I don't know what to expect. From myself, most of all."
The line was quiet for a moment before Julian spoke again. "The first day I competed professionally, I stood at the edge of the court feeling like an impostor. Like everyone would suddenly realize I didn't belong there."
"What did you do?" I asked, pulling my knees to my chest.
"I played anyway. Badly at first—I double-faulted my first two serves." There was a smile in his voice. "But then I stopped thinking about what everyone expected and just... played."
I traced patterns on the window glass with my fingertip, leaving invisible marks that disappeared as soon as I lifted my hand. "And did you win?"
"Actually, no. I lost that match spectacularly," Julian chuckled, the sound low and warm through the phone. "But I learned something important—that being authentic, even when you're terrified, feels better than being perfect and empty."
His words settled into something tender in my chest. "I've never been allowed to lose spectacularly at anything."
"Well," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, "you'll have plenty of opportunities with us. We're experts at spectacular failures."
Despite everything—the weight of tomorrow, the suffocating week behind me, the uncertainty ahead—I found myself smiling. Actually smiling, not the careful, measured expression I'd been trained to wear.
"I should let you get some rest," Julian said softly.
"Wait," I said quickly, not ready to break this connection. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course." His voice still soft as he spoke to me.
I hesitated, then forced the words out. "What happens if I'm not... enough? If the person underneath all this conditioning isn't worth the trouble you're taking?"
