Chapter 109 Everything's temporary
Some people are actually afraid of being too happy because they think that something tragic will happen. A condition known as “cherophobia.” I’m not sure I qualify, mostly because my tragedy has already arrived and unpacked its bags in my spare room. I’m not afraid of the happiness itself, I’m just hyper-aware of its expiration date.
I’m still seated at the kitchen table, the wood cool beneath my palms, long after the apartment has fallen into a ringing silence. Michael left twenty minutes ago to drop my parents off at a hotel. They’d insisted on booking one nearby, waving off my half-hearted offer of the very unprepared spare bedroom with a coordinated efficiency that suggested they’d discussed it on the flight.
"We'll be by tomorrow," my mother had said, her hand lingering on the doorframe as if she were afraid the apartment might vanish if she let go.
I stare at the empty mugs and bowls. A new kind of anxiety begins to thrum in my chest. What's the plan? Are they staying in Seattle indefinitely? Racking up a fortune in hotel accommodation just to watch me nap and eat soup? I wanted to ask, but I didn't know how. They’ve only just arrived. To ask when they’re leaving feels like a rejection of the love that brought them here.
The truth is, I love them, but I don’t need more caretakers. I already have one who is overqualified and terrifyingly observant.
I think back to an hour ago. Every time my mum said something genuinely funny and I felt that genuine spark of amusement, it was immediately tagged by a heavy, gray realization....This is probably a memory being made because time is running out.
It doesn't make me scared to be happy. It just makes the happiness slowly fade, like a photograph left in the sun too long. The colors are still there, but they’re losing their bite.
I stand up slowly. The dizziness is manageable if I don't make any sudden ego-driven movements. I walk to the sink.
Michael had spent five minutes in a polite, tactical skirmish with my mother over the dishes. She’d already gripped the sponge, but Michael eventually won her over by using the evening traffic as an excuse. "The bridge will be a nightmare in ten minutes," he’d said with that effortless, charming authority. She’d conceded, but I could tell it went against her entire programming to leave a dirty plate in a house she didn't own.
I decide to do them because it feels more productive than the silence of my own thoughts.
I turn on the tap, letting the water run hot until steam begins to curl around my wrists. I pick up a mug, the one Michael used, and start to scrub. There's a specific, grounding reality to manual labor. It’s a closed loop. A beginning, a middle, and a clean ending. It’s the only thing in my life right now that follows a predictable logic.
I’m halfway through the silverware when I hear the front door click open. Michael's back. I don't turn around. I keep my hands submerged in the warmth of the soapy water, bracing myself for the inevitable. Him saying I shouldn't have bothered.
But it never comes.
Instead, I hear his footsteps cross the floor, steady and unhurried. I turn my head just enough to glance at him over my shoulder. He drops his keys on the counter and moves into my space, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
He doesn't mention the dishes. He doesn't tell me to sit down. He just lets his weight settle against my back, his chin resting on my shoulder. I lean into him, the tension in my spine unraveling at the contact. I appreciate the silence more than I can say.
"Did they get settled in okay?" I ask, my voice sounding low and slightly muffled by the steam.
"They did," he murmurs, the vibration of his voice humming through my shoulder blades. "Left them at the hotel lobby. They seemed... Okay." He leans in and presses a lingering kiss to the side of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. "They asked a lot about you."
I swallow hard, the soap suds on a dinner plate suddenly becoming the most interesting thing in the world. "Like what?"
"Everything," he says. "The stuff they were probably too cautious to ask you outright. The logistics. The 'how-are-you-actually-doing' of it all."
I nod slightly, a slow, heavy movement. I pause, the sponge hovering over a saucer, before I speak. "They think I’m fragile," I say quietly. "I think, deep down, they’ve always thought that. Even before the first time."
Michael shakes his head, his cheek brushing against mine. "I don’t think it’s fragility, Ryan. I think they just think you’re incredibly reserved. That you don’t offer much up on your own." He pauses, his grip tightening just a fraction. "Which, to be fair, isn't exactly a wild mischaracterization."
"You know me more than they do. More than anyone, actually." I say, the words coming out absentmindedly, a simple statement of fact.
"I told them as much as I could," Michael says after a beat. "I didn't sugarcoat it. I figured they were owed the truth, even the hard parts."
I exhale, a long, shaky breath. The fatigue is starting to claw at the backs of my eyes, a heavy pressure I’ve been trying to ignore since the soup. I ate earlier, not because I was hungry, but because my mother was watching me with that keen, optimistic smile that felt like a command. I didn’t feel nauseous, which was a win, but the act of digesting seems to have drained my battery to zero.
"It felt a little too normal," I admit, staring into the grey water.
Michael hums softly, then he steps away, leaning back against the counter opposite the sink. I miss the heat of him instantly. The kitchen feels five degrees colder without his arms around me.
"Is that a problem?" he asks, his eyes searching mine.
I glance at him, then shrug, my shoulders feeling like they’re made of lead. "It just made it all feel... temporary, for some reason."
Michael’s gaze softens, that signature sharpness giving way to something more profound.
"It is temporary," he says, his voice steady. "In essence, everything is."
I look away, focusing on a stubborn spot of grease on a fork. "But," he adds, "that doesn't make it any less real, Ryan."
I realize I’ve been scrubbing the same fork for three minutes.
"They were being too careful," my voice barely carries over the sound of the dripping tap.
Michael tilts his head, his eyes tracking the repetitive motion of my hands. "Of you?"
"Of everything." I pause, the weight of the day finally starting to settle into my joints. "They don’t know where the line is yet. They don't know at what level their panic should be, so they’re just....hovering at a constant low frequency."
Michael nods slowly, his arms crossing over his chest. He looks at me with that devastatingly honest clarity that used to terrify me and now feels like the only thing keeping me upright. "But neither do you. And neither do I."
I let out a faint huff of a laugh. "That’s not comforting."
"It’s not supposed to be," he says, stepping forward until he’s back in my space, leaning his hip against the counter. "It means we’re all learning at the same time. There’s no head of the class here."
I look down at my prune-textured fingers, "I hate being the subject of the lesson."
"I know," he whispers. Then he starts rolling his sleeves as he steps up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, his hand reaching for the sponge.
I give a small, sharp shake of my head. "I’ve got it. I’m almost done."