Chapter 123: Ferris Wheel or Emotional Rollercoaster?
Of all the options. All the carefully, thoughtfully, enthusiastically presented options I had just delivered like a tour guide with no off switch—rides, games, snacks, controlled chaos—he looked around, considered everything for approximately two seconds, and then chose violence. “That one,” Grayson said, nodding toward the giant Ferris wheel looming in the distance like a calm, rotating threat to my well-being.
Not just any Ferris wheel.
A giant Ferris wheel.
The kind that doesn’t just spin—it ascends. Slowly. Menacingly. Like it has time. Like it enjoys the process.
I followed his gaze with the emotional heaviness of someone realizing their day had taken a turn. The Ferris wheel stood tall against the sky, peaceful, elegant, and deeply untrustworthy. Its cabins moved at a calm, steady pace, which somehow made it worse. Fast rides panic you and end quickly. This? This gave you time. Time to think. Time to regret. Time to reflect on every bad decision that had led you to being suspended in the air like a decorative object.
“No,” I said immediately. No hesitation. No discussion. Just a firm, deeply personal rejection. “No, I don’t do that.”
He glanced at me, mildly curious, like I had just declined something reasonable. “You don’t do what?”
I turned to him slowly, blinking once like I needed to process the question. “Heights,” I said, gesturing upward with full commitment. “I don’t do heights. I don’t do elevation. I don’t do slow-moving sky situations.” I folded my arms, taking a small step back like physical distance could reinforce my boundaries. “I like ground. Ground is reliable. Ground has never looked down on me—literally or emotionally.”
He looked back at the Ferris wheel. Then at me. Then back at the Ferris wheel again, like he was reassessing the situation and still coming to the wrong conclusion. “It’s just a Ferris wheel,” he said. Calm. Casual. Unhelpful. “It’s slow.”
“That is the problem,” I replied instantly, pointing at him like he had just proven my argument. “Slow is dangerous. Slow means prolonged suffering. Slow means I have time to form emotional attachments to my regrets.” I shook my head firmly. “No. Absolutely not. We can do something else. Something closer to the earth. Something that respects gravity.”
He didn’t argue.
Which should have been reassuring.
It was not.
Because instead of debating, he just started walking toward it. Calmly. Casually. Like this had already been decided in a meeting where my opinion had been noted and then immediately ignored.
I stared at his back in disbelief. “That’s not how decisions work,” I called after him, not moving at first out of principle. “You can’t just pick something I clearly rejected and then… proceed.” A pause. He did not stop. Of course he didn’t stop. I exhaled sharply and followed, because apparently I had developed a habit of making poor choices in real time. “This is not agreement,” I added as I caught up to him. “This is me being dragged into a situation by social pressure and questionable judgment.”
“You’re walking on your own,” he pointed out.
“That’s not the point,” I said immediately. “The point is I’m emotionally being forced.”
We reached the line, which, in my opinion, was unnecessarily long for something so clearly dangerous. People stood there calmly. Smiling. Laughing. As if they had not all collectively agreed to be lifted into the sky in a moving container. I looked at them with deep suspicion. “These people are too relaxed,” I muttered. “That’s concerning. They know something I don’t. Or worse—they don’t know anything at all.”
The Ferris wheel creaked softly as it rotated, each cabin rising higher and higher like it was demonstrating exactly what I should be avoiding. I tilted my head back to follow one to the top and immediately regretted it. “Why is it so tall?” I asked, not expecting an answer but demanding one anyway. “Who decided this was necessary? Who looked at a normal height and said, no, let’s go higher. Let’s add fear.”
Grayson, standing beside me with the patience of someone who was not currently spiraling, glanced down slightly. “It’s a good view from the top.”
I turned to him slowly. “I don’t need a view,” I said. “I have imagination. I can picture it. Beautiful. Stunning. Moving on.”
The line moved forward.
That was it. That was the moment my fate sealed itself. One step closer. Then another. Each movement bringing me nearer to a decision I had very clearly not approved. I crossed my arms tightly, as if that would somehow anchor me to the ground. “If this is how I go,” I said under my breath, “I want it noted that I objected. Repeatedly. With clarity.”
We reached the front.
The operator opened the small gate with alarming ease, like this was routine and not the beginning of my personal crisis. A cabin swung gently as the previous passengers stepped out, laughing like they had just experienced joy instead of existential dread. I narrowed my eyes at them. “They look too happy,” I said quietly. “I don’t trust that.”
Grayson stepped in first like this was normal, like stepping into a slowly rising box in the sky was something people did without reevaluating their entire existence. Then he turned slightly and, without a word, held out his hand to me. Just… casually. Like this wasn’t a life-altering moment. Like I wasn’t one shaky decision away from backing out and pretending I suddenly had somewhere else to be.
I stared at his hand.
Then at him.
Then back at his hand again, like it might disappear if I looked at it too long. My brain immediately split into two very loud, very conflicting voices. One was screaming don’t do it, you value your life, while the other was slightly quieter but significantly more stubborn, whispering you are not about to chicken out in front of him. I inhaled slowly, squared my shoulders, and muttered under my breath, “Screw it. I have dignity.”
And then I took his hand.
It was warm. Steady. Firm in a way that immediately made me feel like maybe—maybe—this wasn’t the worst decision I had ever made. He tightened his grip just slightly as I stepped up into the cabin, like he already knew I was one wrong thought away from panicking and launching myself back onto solid ground. I climbed in carefully, trying to maintain some level of composure, but the second both my feet were inside and the door clicked shut behind us, reality hit me all over again.
We were in the air container.
And I did not let go of his hand.
Not immediately. Not gracefully. Not at all. My fingers stayed wrapped around his like they had developed emotional attachment in under five seconds. I told myself it was temporary. Strategic. Purely for balance. But when the cabin gave the slightest shift as the wheel started moving again, my grip tightened without permission. “I’m just—” I began, already defensive, “—stabilizing myself.”
“Of course,” Grayson said easily, not even attempting to call me out, which somehow made it worse.
The cabin lifted slowly, the ground beginning its gradual, deeply unnecessary disappearance beneath us. I kept my eyes firmly forward, refusing to look down, up, or anywhere that might confirm we were, in fact, leaving the safety of the earth. My hand was still in his, and at this point, I had accepted that it might stay there forever. Or at least until we survived. “If I suddenly stop talking,” I informed him quietly, “just assume I’ve mentally checked out for self-preservation.”
He shifted slightly closer—not obvious, not dramatic, just enough that his presence felt… there. Solid. Grounded, ironically. “You’re okay,” he said, his voice calm in a way that didn’t feel dismissive or teasing this time. Just steady. Reassuring. His thumb brushed lightly against my knuckles, absentminded, like he wasn’t even thinking about it, but it sent a very confusing signal to my already overwhelmed brain. “I’ve got you.”
That… did not help.
Or it helped too much. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Because suddenly, despite the height, despite the slow ascent into what I still firmly believed was a questionable situation, I felt… less like I was about to panic. My grip on his hand didn’t loosen, but it changed—less desperate, more… anchored. Like I was holding on because I wanted to, not just because I needed to. Which was a completely different problem I did not have time to unpack.
The cabin rose higher, the park stretching out beneath us, lights flickering to life as the sun dipped lower. I risked a glance—just a small one—and immediately regretted it, my fingers tightening again around his. “Still hate this,” I muttered, but there was less bite in it now, less urgency. More… reluctant acceptance.
Grayson shifted slightly, still holding my hand like it had somehow become part of the structural integrity of the cabin, and nodded toward the small bench across from us. “Sit,” he said gently, not as a command, but as a very reasonable suggestion that I was emotionally unprepared to accept. “You’ll feel better if you’re not standing like you’re about to jump out.”
“I am not about to jump out,” I replied immediately, even though my current posture—tense, upright, and gripping his hand like it was the last stable object on earth—strongly suggested otherwise. I glanced at the seat. Then at the floor. Then at the very visible fact that we were no longer anywhere near the ground. “Sitting feels… committed. Standing feels like I still have options.”
“You don’t have options,” he said calmly.
I stared at him. “That’s a terrifying sentence in this context.”
But the cabin gave a small, almost polite sway, and my survival instincts immediately overruled my argument. “Fine,” I muttered, allowing him to guide me the very short but emotionally significant distance to the seat. I sat down carefully, like the bench might betray me if I moved too quickly. My hand was still in his. At this point, it felt less like a choice and more like a long-term arrangement.
“There,” he said, settling beside me instead of across, which I noticed but chose not to comment on because my brain was already overwhelmed. “Better.”
I took a breath. Then another. Slightly less dramatic this time. “I hate that you might be right,” I admitted quietly, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead like if I didn’t acknowledge the height, it wouldn’t acknowledge me.
“Try looking out,” he suggested after a moment, his voice softer now. “Not down. Just… out.”
“That sounds like a trap,” I said instantly.
“It’s not.”
“It feels like one.”
Still, after a second, I hesitated. Then, very cautiously, I turned my head just enough to look past the edge of the cabin—not down, never down, but outward, where the park stretched into a blur of lights and movement. The carousel spun in slow, golden circles, music drifting faintly upward, people moving like tiny, harmless figures instead of witnesses to my poor decisions.
“…Oh,” I said before I could stop myself.
Grayson didn’t say anything right away, but I could feel his attention shift slightly, like he was watching my reaction more than the view. “Yeah?”
“It’s…” I paused, narrowing my eyes like I was suspicious of my own opinion. “…not terrible.”
That was the highest praise I was willing to give under the circumstances.
The cabin continued its slow climb, but sitting down made it feel less like I was being dragged upward against my will and more like I was… participating. Slightly. Reluctantly. My grip on his hand loosened just a fraction—not enough to let go, absolutely not—but enough that it didn’t feel like I was clinging for survival anymore.
“See?” he said quietly. “Told you.”
“Don’t get used to this,” I replied, but there was no real bite in it this time. My gaze drifted outward again, lingering a little longer now. “I still think this was a bad idea.”
“Of course you do.”
“But…” I hesitated, then exhaled softly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little. “…it’s a slightly less bad idea than I expected.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh at that,