Chapter 35 Tremors
I returned to the lab before dawn. The corridors were empty, save for the faint echo of my own footsteps, bouncing softly against tile and steel. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, low and persistent, like a heartbeat that refused to stop. Everything smelled faintly of alcohol and sterilization—a scent that used to feel safe but now carried its own weight.
Meta wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. He had promised—half a promise, really, but a promise all the same—that he would be here early. And yet, I stood alone, tracing my fingers along the edge of the counter, counting the seconds, letting the silence stretch.
I tried not to think about him. Tried not to imagine the way his shoulders would sag under invisible burdens, the way his gaze would flick to mine and then away, as if afraid of being caught. But thinking—or not thinking—was the same thing when it came to him. He inhabited my space whether he appeared or not.
The centrifuge in the corner hummed insistently. Someone had left it on last night. Its whirr was almost comforting, steady, predictable. Work was always predictable. Work didn’t disappear. Work didn’t leave you waiting and wondering and hoping all at once.
I set the stack of culture plates down and opened the fellowship application we had begun days ago. The last section still stared blank at us, empty and expectant. I could feel it pressing against my chest in the same way his absence did—demanding attention, daring me to fill the space.
Footsteps.
I froze. Not immediately, not visibly, but internally. Something in my chest tightened, a pulse I couldn’t name. The steps were hesitant at first, careful, almost reverent, as if the person approaching didn’t want to disturb the air too sharply.
Meta.
He appeared at the threshold, hair tousled, hoodie half-zipped, notebook clutched under his arm. But it wasn’t his appearance that made my heart stumble—it was the weight behind his eyes. Haunted. Tired. Something raw and unguarded that he rarely allowed me to see.
“Selene,” he said, voice low, catching as it left his throat. “I… I’m sorry.”
I nodded, keeping my voice measured. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he insisted, running a hand down his face, trembling slightly at the edges. “Meetings ran over. Then one thing led to another. And I—” He stopped, frustrated, broken in a way that seemed almost physical. “I should have told you.”
“You should have,” I said softly, letting the words land without anger. Just acknowledgment.
He hesitated, then stepped closer, leaning on the counter as if the weight of everything he hadn’t said was pressing him down. His gaze flicked toward mine, hesitant, searching.
“I don’t know how to keep everything together,” he admitted quietly. “Every time I fix one thing, three more unravel.”
I moved closer, the space between us charged with the unspoken. “Then let them unravel,” I murmured. “Just not us.”
For a moment, he simply looked at me. His lips parted slightly, uncertain. Then he exhaled, long and slow, leaning forward so that his forehead rested against mine. The warmth pressed through, intimate and grounding.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said.
“You’re learning,” I whispered. “Learning is what matters. Not deserving.”
His hands found mine, tentative, then firmer, gripping just enough to anchor himself in the present. I traced a thumb along the back of one hand, steadying both of us.
“I want to do this,” he said. “The fellowship. The research. Everything. But I’m afraid I’ll ruin it. Afraid I’ll ruin us.”
“You won’t,” I replied, softly, firmly. “Not if we choose each other. Even if it’s messy. Especially if it’s messy.”
The tremor beneath his confidence didn’t vanish, but it shifted into something usable, something we could work with together. He exhaled again, shorter this time, almost a laugh of relief caught in the throat.
“Let’s start with one thing,” I suggested, nodding toward the blank section of the application. “Just one section. Together.”
Meta’s hands squeezed mine, his small, uncertain smile breaking through. “One section,” he repeated, voice low but steady.
Side by side, we leaned over the paper, pens moving across the page in overlapping strokes. Words became a rhythm, merging thoughts with thoughts, hesitation with effort. Each line completed felt like a small victory, a quiet promise we were both willing to honor.
Even as we worked, the past whispered around the edges—med school years, stolen glances, ambitions clashing, heartbreaks that had never fully healed. I felt the tremor beneath us again, the reminder that fault lines don’t disappear simply because we try to ignore them. But here, in this small, shared act, they softened just enough to let hope seep through.
He looked at me then, eyes bright but cautious. “I want to try. Even if I fail.”
“You won’t,” I said, though I knew better. “Because we keep choosing each other. That’s what matters. Always choosing.”
His lips brushed mine briefly, a promise rather than a kiss. It didn’t erase the fear, didn’t make the tremors disappear—but it anchored us both, present and intent.
And for now, that had to be enough.
Because some fractures take time. Some truths cut deep. But some bonds—if tended carefully—can endure even when everything else threatens to fall apart.
We wrote in silence after that, pens scratching, hearts steadying, and for the first time in a long while, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, the fault lines could start to close.