**Wednesday, December 11th - 9:00 AM EST**
The subway ride from their hotel to Columbia University's campus felt like traveling through the circulatory system of some massive organism. Trains arrived with mechanical precision, disgorged passengers who moved with practiced efficiency, then swallowed new crowds heading toward destinations across the five boroughs. Haruki clutched his presentation materials while trying not to stare at the fascinating cross-section of humanity sharing their morning commute.
"Different energy than Boston or New Haven," Noa observed, watching a businessman in an expensive suit reading poetry while standing next to a construction worker eating breakfast from a paper bag.
"More diverse," Sana agreed, documenting the subway car's eclectic mix of passengers with discrete phone photography. "More... intense."
"Everything in New York is more intense," Haruki said as their train pulled into the 116th Street station. "Including, presumably, academic presentations."
Columbia's campus provided a brief respite from Manhattan's urban intensity—tree-lined walkways, classical architecture, the familiar rhythm of students hurrying between classes with coffee cups and overstuffed backpacks. But even here, the city's energy was unmistakable. Students moved faster, talked louder, carried themselves with the kind of confidence that came from living in the center of the world.
"It's like Harvard crossed with Times Square," Sana said as they walked toward the psychology building.
"Academic prestige meets urban ambition," Noa agreed.
"Perfect environment for our most challenging presentation yet."
Dr. Maria Santos met them at the psychology department's entrance—a woman in her fifties who radiated the kind of intellectual intensity that suggested she'd spent decades asking difficult questions and expecting satisfactory answers.
"Welcome to Columbia," she said, shaking hands with each of them. "I've heard interesting things about your research from colleagues at Harvard and Yale."
"Interesting good or interesting concerning?" Haruki asked, attempting humor to mask his nervousness.
"Interesting enough that we have our largest turnout for a visiting presentation this semester. Seventy-five faculty and graduate students."
"Seventy-five people," Noa repeated, as if saying the number aloud might make it less intimidating.
"Including several faculty who specialize in relationship psychology, attachment theory, and statistical methodology. They're very curious about your critical period hypothesis."
"Curious supportive or curious skeptical?" Sana asked.
"Curious academic. Which means they'll ask hard questions because they want to understand your work well enough to build on it or challenge it appropriately."
**Wednesday, December 11th - 1:00 PM EST**
The Columbia seminar room was the largest they'd presented in—seventy-five seats arranged in ascending rows that made Haruki feel like he was performing in an academic theater. Faculty filled the front rows with the kind of attentive focus that suggested they'd cancelled other commitments to attend. Graduate students occupied the middle sections, notebooks ready, expressions ranging from curious to competitive. The back rows held postdocs and visiting researchers who looked like they were evaluating potential future colleagues.
"The critical period hypothesis emerged from careful observation," Haruki began, his voice carrying clearly through the room's excellent acoustics. "But it was validated through computational analysis of relationship data at unprecedented scale."
"Before we discuss methodology," interrupted a woman in the third row, "I'd like to understand your theoretical framework. How does the critical period concept relate to existing attachment theory?"
Dr. Rebecca Walsh, according to Sana's pre-presentation research. One of Columbia's most respected attachment researchers.
"Excellent question," Noa replied, advancing to their theoretical overview slide. "Traditional attachment theory focuses on early childhood experiences and general attachment styles. Our research suggests that specific relationship formation behaviors create attachment patterns independent of pre-existing styles."
"You're proposing that attachment can be... learned? Deliberately developed?"
"We're proposing that intentional behaviors during relationship formation can strengthen attachment bonds regardless of individuals' baseline attachment styles."
"That's a significant claim," Dr. Walsh said. "Do you have longitudinal data to support it?"
Sana stepped forward, connecting her laptop to the projection system with the confident efficiency that came from months of practice. "Our computational analysis tracked relationship outcomes over eighteen-month periods. Couples who exhibited critical period behaviors showed sustained attachment security, even when baseline assessments indicated anxious or avoidant attachment styles."
The screen filled with longitudinal data that would have impressed even Dr. Voss—regression analyses showing maintained effect sizes over time, controlled variables that accounted for baseline differences, statistical significance that held up across multiple follow-up periods.
"The effect persists beyond the initial critical period," Sana continued. "Suggesting that early intentional behaviors create lasting relationship patterns."
A hand shot up in the middle section. "Dr. James Liu, social psychology. I'm curious about cultural factors. Your sample appears to be predominantly American university populations. How do you know these findings generalize across cultural contexts?"
"We don't yet," Haruki admitted honestly. "Cultural validation is one of our research priorities. Different cultures have different relationship norms, communication styles, attachment expectations."
"Which is why we're interested in cross-cultural replication studies," Noa added. "This tour is partly an opportunity to discuss collaboration with researchers who have access to diverse populations."
"Smart approach," Dr. Liu said. "Because relationship formation behaviors that predict success in individualistic cultures might be irrelevant or counterproductive in collectivistic contexts."
"Exactly. We want to understand which aspects of the critical period hypothesis are universal versus culture-specific."
The questions continued for forty-five minutes—theoretical challenges, methodological critiques, practical applications, statistical concerns. But unlike the friendly curiosity at Harvard or the practical focus at Yale, Columbia's faculty pushed harder, dug deeper, demanded more sophisticated answers.
"Final question," Dr. Santos announced as the clock approached 2 PM.
A postdoc in the back row raised her hand. "This is more philosophical than methodological, but... don't you think deliberate relationship development removes the romance from romantic relationships? Like, if you're documenting and analyzing everything, where's the spontaneity, the magic, the falling-in-love experience?"
The room fell silent. It was the question underneath all the academic discussion—whether studying love destroyed it, whether scientific approach to relationships eliminated the emotional experience that made them worthwhile.
Haruki looked at Noa, remembering their early conversations about balancing research objectivity with relationship authenticity.
"Speaking from personal experience," he said carefully, "documentation enhanced rather than diminished our emotional connection. Paying attention to how we related to each other made us more intentional about relating well."
"The research mindset encouraged curiosity rather than assumption," Noa added. "Instead of taking our relationship for granted, we approached it with genuine interest in understanding each other."
"And the magic," Sana concluded, "comes from discovering that someone chooses to pay attention to you deliberately. That they're curious enough about your inner world to document how you grow together. That's romantic, not unromantic."
Dr. Santos returned to the podium as sustained applause filled the room.
"Thank you for a challenging and thought-provoking presentation," she said. "I think I speak for everyone when I say we're excited to see where this research leads."
**Wednesday, December 11th - 3:30 PM EST**
The post-presentation reception buzzed with the kind of intellectual energy that came from genuinely stimulating academic discussion. Faculty approached them with collaboration proposals, graduate students asked about methodology details, and even the skeptical postdocs seemed interested in their computational analysis techniques.
"Impressive work," Dr. Walsh said, joining their small group with coffee and what looked like grudging respect. "I have to admit, I was prepared to dismiss relationship research from graduate students. But your theoretical framework is quite sophisticated."
"Thank you," Noa replied. "We spent months integrating attachment theory with relationship psychology literature."
"It shows. Your critical period concept fills a genuine gap in attachment research—the mechanism by which adult attachment patterns can be modified through deliberate behavior."
"Dr. Santos mentioned potential collaboration opportunities," Haruki said, pulling out his phone to exchange contact information.
"Absolutely. We have cross-cultural relationship data that could help validate your findings across diverse populations."
As Dr. Walsh walked away, Dr. Richardson appeared beside them with his now-familiar expression of pleased surprise.
"That was your strongest presentation yet," he said. "The questions were tougher than Harvard or Yale, but your answers were more confident, more nuanced."
"We're learning to trust our research," Sana said. "When you believe in your findings, it's easier to defend them under pressure."
"Plus we're getting better at explaining complex concepts clearly," Noa added. "Practice effect."
"More than practice effect. You're developing genuine expertise. The way you handled Dr. Walsh's attachment theory challenges and Dr. Liu's cultural concerns—that was sophisticated academic discussion."
They spent another hour networking with Columbia faculty, discussing methodology with graduate students, and processing the reality that their most challenging presentation had also been their most successful.
"How do you feel?" Haruki asked as they walked back toward the subway through Columbia's campus.
"Exhausted," Noa replied honestly. "But good exhausted. Like we earned the attention we're getting."
"I feel like we passed some kind of test," Sana said. "Not just of our research, but of our ability to hold our own in high-level academic discussions."
"Columbia faculty don't waste time on work that isn't substantial," Haruki observed. "The fact that they engaged seriously with our findings suggests we're contributing something valuable."
As their subway train carried them back toward Manhattan, all three felt the satisfaction of challenges met successfully. Columbia had pushed them harder than any previous presentation, but they'd responded with confidence, clarity, and genuine expertise.
The critical period hypothesis was holding up under increasingly rigorous scrutiny.
And they were discovering that they could handle academic pressure without losing sight of why their research mattered.
"What's next?" Sana asked, consulting their tour schedule.
"Christmas break," Noa replied. "A week in Japan with our families, then back to the tour."
"I can't wait to see Japan," Sana said. "And I can't wait for a break from presenting our research every day."
"Good thing," Haruki said. "Because after Japan, we have three more weeks of presentations across the Southeast, Midwest, and West Coast."
"Ready for it?"
"Ready for whatever comes next."
Outside the subway windows, New York City rushed past in a blur of lights and movement and possibility. Their academic tour was just beginning, but they were already becoming the researchers they'd hoped they might be.
The critical period hypothesis was about to be tested by American regional diversity.
And they were about to discover what home felt like when you carried it with you.
---
*End of Chapter 25*