*November 15th - 2:00 PM Eastern Time*
The University of Michigan psychology building looked like every other academic building Haruki had ever seen—red brick, imposing columns, and the kind of institutional gravitas that made graduate students feel simultaneously inspired and inadequate. But as he and Noa walked through the main entrance, rolling their shared suitcase behind them like some kind of academic power couple, he couldn't shake the feeling that this moment was different.
"Okay," Noa said, checking her phone for the third time in five minutes. "We have two hours before the presentation. That's enough time to check into the hotel, change clothes, have a minor panic attack, and maybe grab coffee."
"You forgot 'practice our opening remarks for the fifteenth time.'"
"I was including that under 'minor panic attack.'"
Dr. Richardson appeared in the lobby before they could fully process their surroundings, a tall man in his fifties with the kind of enthusiastic energy that made Haruki immediately understand why his research was so well-regarded. He approached them with the confident stride of someone who belonged in academic spaces, extending his hand with a warmth that felt genuinely welcoming.
"You must be Haruki and Noa! I'm Jim Richardson. Welcome to Michigan." His handshake was firm, his smile genuine, and his eyes held the kind of intellectual curiosity that made good researchers. "How was your flight from Chicago?"
"Short and terrifying," Noa replied honestly. "Not the flight itself—the anticipation of being here."
"Good. If you weren't nervous, I'd be worried you didn't understand the significance of what you've accomplished."
He led them through the building, pointing out various offices and labs with the casual pride of someone who loved his institutional home. The hallways were lined with photographs of distinguished faculty, research awards, and the kind of academic achievements that made Haruki feel both inspired and slightly nauseous.
"The presentation is in our main conference room," Dr. Richardson explained as they walked. "We typically get about thirty faculty members for these talks, plus graduate students and postdocs. Today we have closer to sixty people registered."
"Sixty?" Haruki's voice cracked slightly.
"Your research has generated quite a bit of interest. We've had faculty from other departments asking to attend—sociology, anthropology, even some folks from the business school who are interested in team dynamics."
"No pressure or anything," Noa muttered.
"Actually, I prefer to think of it as validation. Your work is crossing disciplinary boundaries, which is exactly what the best research should do."
They reached the conference room, and Dr. Richardson opened the door to reveal a space that was both smaller and larger than Haruki had imagined. Smaller because it felt intimate, with comfortable chairs arranged in a semicircle around a presentation area. Larger because the implications of what they were about to do suddenly felt enormous.
"We'll have you set up here," Dr. Richardson said, gesturing toward the front of the room. "Projector, microphones, the usual setup. But I want to emphasize that this is meant to be conversational. We're not looking for a formal lecture—we want to understand your research process, your findings, and how your personal experience contributed to your scientific insights."
"And if we completely embarrass ourselves?" Noa asked.
"Then you'll be in good company. Some of our most distinguished faculty members have given presentations here that they'd prefer to forget. The difference is that your research is genuinely groundbreaking, so even if you stumble over your words, the content will carry you."
After Dr. Richardson left them to get settled, Haruki and Noa stood in the empty conference room, both trying to process the reality of what was about to happen.
"This is really happening," Noa said.
"This is really happening."
"In two hours, we're going to stand in front of sixty psychology professors and explain how we accidentally turned our relationship into a scientific breakthrough."
"When you put it like that, it sounds completely insane."
"It is completely insane. But it's also exactly what we've been preparing for."
Haruki looked around the room, imagining it filled with distinguished academics, all focused on their research, their relationship, their story. Six months ago, the idea would have been paralyzing. Now, it felt like an opportunity to share something genuinely important.
"Noa?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens in there, I'm glad we're doing this together."
"Even if I trip over the microphone cord and accidentally reveal embarrassing details about your sock-folding habits?"
"Especially then. Though my sock-folding habits are not embarrassing—they're methodical."
"Same thing."
---
Two hours later, the conference room was filled with the kind of intellectual energy that made academic spaces feel electric. Faculty members chatted in small groups, graduate students clustered near the back with notebooks and recording devices, and everyone seemed genuinely excited to hear about research that had been generating buzz in psychology circles for weeks.
Haruki and Noa stood at the front of the room, both wearing their most professional outfits—his best button-down shirt and her favorite blazer—and trying to project confidence they didn't entirely feel. Dr. Richardson made brief introductions, highlighting their research findings and the Michigan replication results, before turning the floor over to them.
"Thank you all for being here," Noa began, her voice steadier than she'd expected. "Six months ago, if someone had told us we'd be standing in front of distinguished faculty at the University of Michigan discussing our relationship, we would have assumed they were describing our worst nightmare."
A ripple of laughter went through the audience.
"Instead," Haruki continued, "we're here to share research that emerged from what we initially thought was just careful documentation of our own relationship development. What we discovered was evidence for a critical period in romantic attachment formation that appears to be universal across cultural and demographic boundaries."
They moved through their presentation with the kind of natural collaboration that had developed over months of working together. Noa handled the methodology and data analysis, her clear explanations making complex statistical concepts accessible. Haruki focused on the theoretical implications and practical applications, his enthusiasm for the research evident in every gesture.
But the real magic happened during the demonstration portion, when they showed the audience what their communication and conflict resolution strategies actually looked like in practice.
"Can you give us an example of how you handle disagreements?" asked Dr. Suzie Chen, a faculty member who specialized in couples therapy.
"Actually, we had one this morning," Noa said, glancing at Haruki with amusement. "About whether to include a particular slide in this presentation."
"I thought it was too technical for a general audience," Haruki explained. "Noa thought it was essential for understanding our methodology."
"So how did you resolve it?" Dr. Chen asked.
"We used what we call the 'both-and' approach," Noa said. "Instead of arguing about whether to include the slide or not, we figured out how to present the technical information in a way that would be accessible to everyone."
"Which is exactly what we ended up doing," Haruki added. "The solution incorporated both of our concerns instead of requiring one of us to compromise."
"And this is a pattern you've identified in your relationship data?"
"It's one of the key findings," Noa confirmed. "Couples who consistently look for solutions that address both partners' underlying concerns develop stronger attachment bonds than couples who rely on compromise or conflict avoidance."
The questions continued for over an hour, covering everything from replication methodology to cultural considerations to practical applications for therapy. Throughout it all, Haruki and Noa found themselves settling into a rhythm that felt natural and authentic—academic rigor combined with genuine personal insight.
"One final question," said Dr. Michael Torres, the department chair. "What's next for your research? Where do you see this work going?"
Haruki and Noa exchanged glances, both thinking about the opportunities and challenges ahead.
"We're planning longitudinal studies to track couples through the critical period and beyond," Noa said. "We want to understand not just how secure attachment develops, but how it's maintained over time."
"And we're interested in applications beyond romantic relationships," Haruki added. "Friendship formation, workplace partnerships, therapeutic relationships—anywhere that attachment bonds are relevant."
"But most importantly," Noa concluded, "we want to make sure our research actually helps people build healthier relationships. Academic understanding is only valuable if it translates into practical benefits for real couples."
The applause that followed felt different from polite academic appreciation—it felt like genuine excitement about research that could make a difference in people's lives.
After the formal presentation ended, faculty members and students crowded around them with follow-up questions, collaboration ideas, and the kind of intellectual enthusiasm that made academic careers feel worthwhile. Dr. Richardson eventually rescued them from the crowd, leading them to his office for a private debrief.
"That," he said, settling behind his desk with obvious satisfaction, "was exactly what we hoped for. You didn't just present research—you demonstrated why it matters."
"How do you think it went?" Haruki asked, still processing the experience.
"I think you just launched your academic careers in a way that most researchers never achieve. The combination of rigorous methodology, practical applications, and authentic personal insight is incredibly rare."
"And the fact that we're studying our own relationship?" Noa asked. "That doesn't compromise our credibility?"
"Just the opposite. It enhances your credibility because you're transparent about your methodology and your findings are independently validated. You've shown that personal involvement, properly managed, can produce better research rather than compromising it."
As they walked back toward their hotel that evening, both Haruki and Noa felt something fundamental shift in their understanding of themselves as researchers and as a couple.
"We did it," Noa said, stopping on the sidewalk outside the psychology building.
"We really did."
"We stood in front of sixty professors and talked about our relationship without dying of embarrassment."
"And they took us seriously. They asked real questions, they're interested in collaboration, they think our research matters."
"So what happens now?"
Haruki looked at her standing there in the Michigan twilight, brilliant and confident and completely unaware of how proud he was to be building a life with her.
"Now we go back to Chicago and figure out how to live up to the expectations we just created."
"Together?"
"Always together."
And as they walked toward their hotel, both felt ready for whatever challenges and opportunities lay ahead—because they'd proven to themselves and to the academic world that they could handle anything as long as they faced it as partners.
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*End of Chapter 12*