It's Friday night, and I'm home alone. Laundry flopping around in the dryer, listening to music that Daniel hates and I love. I can't remember the last time I used the couch. I can't remember the last time I just sat at home alone.

Working too many hours. Towelling out the shower after each time I use it. Phone calls with the realtor. Phone calls with the contractor in Hartley Bay. Pushing out designs. Helping the two new EITs with drafting. Slowly telling each person at work that I am leaving, watching their faces, devouring their reactions.

A recruiter calls me at work. Twice. Another recruiter emails me. I have a phone interview. I write a business case to work remotely.

I go out to a municipal hall for a project meeting. I run into an engineer friend. We chat, she's heard about my situation. I see D's engineer friend and he asks if we've had any offers. I see another engineer that I met at the wedding last Friday - we sat together watching the dance floor in that strange time after the garter toss and when people are starting to sneak home. In the meeting, the lead drainage engineer gives me a hard time and asks what my plans are. I am so full, so so full. It's almost too heavy in my heart.

Jeremy comes over one night. I'm in oversize sweatpants and an inside-out tank top. He's looking messy and amazing. He picks up my cross stitch and studies it for a length of time. I want to eat him.

The weather has shifted and it rains. One morning I stand outside my door and weigh my options. And then I remember this video of the Dutch cycling with umbrellas. I fob out a bike, mount it, and open my umbrella. And I accomplish it, the rainy cycle commute with umbrella. People shake their fists at me, but I don't care. I'm triumphant. This is how change is made.

Over high-end sushi, I talk about my situation with my work mentor. He's helping me work it through, to find a solution that's in my best interests. I slide pieces of sashimi into my mouth, the bonito flakes divinely umami, press the fish into the roof of my mouth with my tongue.

"You know, you could incorporate and become a consultant."

My brain twitches. Fear. Excitement.

I book my final trip back to the north coast. I study the various flight and ferry schedules, juggle phone calls, feed all of the hungry mouths squawking at me.

Finally Friday. Three hours of overtime later, I walk into the lunchroom with glazed eyes. There are empties strewn everywhere, dishes piled up beside the sink. Pretzels scattered here and there, a few fresh ones left in the tray on the island. Octoberfest happened earlier, when I was sorting out a property line/retaining wall conflict on the hospital project.

Three stragglers remain, sipping wine. "You're leaving us!" she exclaims. "It's so sad," he echos.

Everything is surreal. An open jar of mustard beside me, my mouth dry from breathing office air for eleven hours.

"You know, you could incorporate and become a consultant," he says. "I did that for six years. It was great. All of those things that you think are insurmountable or scary are actually really easy. The key is to hire a bookkeeper. You'll make more money than you do now, and you'll work less hours."

And they go off onto a giggling tangent about how my logo would be cross stitched. And how I could catch powder days in the morning and work in the afternoons.

I take deep breaths.

I walk home in the cool night. Call Daniel. It's our twelve year partner-versary. He's 600km away.

I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm giving up on so many things. I'm at such a great place right now. I have community here. I have friends? I have people who really know me, my heart, and I'm just casting all of this aside?

I cherish everything. The kind words that my coworkers say when I tell them I'm leaving. The opportunities that I've been given in my job. The beauty of this city. My strong body that allows me to freely explore the world. Intensely grateful.