Chapter 111 Brain fog
I think the cruelest thing about life isn’t that it ends. It’s that you finally learn how to live right when the clock starts getting loud. You spend decades bracing for the impact, then you realize time isn’t actually what you're scared to run out of. It’s chances. The chance to be known. The chance to be held without fear.
I woke up today submerged in a thick, grey brain fog. My head feels heavy, a literal weight pressing against my temples that makes the simple act of existing feel like an over-ambitious project. If you asked me to articulate the sensation, I’d come up short. The words are there, but they’re drifting just out of reach.
I tried to read, but the sentences refused to knit together. Michael had woken up earlier. I remember the muffled vibration of a phone call, the low tone of his voice as he stepped out of the room. He hasn't returned to bed, but I can hear him moving through the apartment. This is his version of giving me space, I think. Close enough to hear me if I fall, but far enough to let me find my own feet.
I glance at the indent on his pillow and a small, involuntary smile tugs at my mouth. I try to recall what it used to feel like, waking up in this room completely alone, knowing the night would end in the same silence and the following morning would be no different. I try to summon that old, cold independence, but I can hardly find it anymore.
I’m discovering things about myself that I wouldn't have otherwise. Like the fact that when I’m in love, my thoughts don’t just revolve around a person, they start and end with them. Everything is filtered through the lens of us. I have this constant, simmering need to touch him, to be in his orbit. It settles something inside me. I reach out, my palm flat against the sheets where he slept, as if I could absorb some of his energy through the linen.
Then, a strange sound cuts through the quiet. It’s a mechanical grinding coming from the kitchen. I frown, trying to categorize the noise. It’s too early for the dishwasher and too aggressive for the kettle.
Ignoring the fatigue in my limbs, I push myself upright. I grab Michael’s grey hoodie from the foot of the bed and pull it on. It’s more of a comfort thing than a warmth thing. I follow the noise down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the wood. I find Michael in the kitchen, standing over the blender. He’s staring at it with a look of intense concentration. It gives one final, agonized screech before he hits the kill switch. He stares at the pitcher with wary caution before pulling the lid off and peering inside. He starts dumping a fresh handful of something into the green.
I walk toward him, the heavy fog in my brain clearing just enough to let the magnetic pull of his presence take over. I always crave this proximity. I step into his space, my shoulder brushing his arm. He sets down a packet of chia seeds and reaches out, his arm hooking around my shoulder to draw me in. I slide my arms around his torso, my hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt.
He looks down at me, his eyes searching mine for the morning’s status report. "Sleep okay?"
I give a slow, heavy nod and lean up to kiss him briefly. He doesn't let go, instead, he catches me as I pull back, rubbing his nose against mine in that quiet way that always makes me feel like an actual person who has something other actual people have. I chuckle, ducking my head to look away, then gesture toward the machine.
"What have you done to the blender? It sounds like a wood chipper."
"I’m innocent," he says, though he doesn’t look it.
I peer at the thick, swampy concoction in the pitcher. "And that? What is that?"
He smiles, and it’s a look of genuine, misplaced pride. "It’s kale, frozen mango, and a very optimistic amount of chia seeds. The blender's probably just intimidated by the nutrient density."
I scoff, leaning back against the curve of his arm. "Or it’s crying for help. That color's the exact shade of a stagnant pond."
Michael looks mock-offended. He dips a spoon into the sludge and takes a cautious taste. I watch his profile as he turns his head away from me, his jaw working as he swallows. When he turns back, he’s wearing a tense smile.
"It’s 'Antioxidant Green,'" he insists. "Requires a sophisticated palette." He leans down until we’re inches apart. "If you drink this, you’ll likely be able to see through the walls."
I stare at it, wholly unimpressed. He lets go of me to fill two glasses and I take a small step back, shaking my head.
"I think I’d rather just start with some toast. Maybe we can work our way up to this."
He sighs, "I thought you’d make this difficult." He reaches into a cabinet and produces two tiny, brightly colored paper umbrellas that definitely weren't in there before. He meticulously stabs them into the brim of the glasses, then picks one up and holds the other out to me.
"Drink the sludge, Ryan," he says, his eyes dancing with a challenge. "I put a tiny umbrella in it. That makes it a cocktail."
His hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the kitchen table. He takes a sip of his own "cocktail" as we walk, his expression shifting into something that looks suspiciously like regret. He sets the glass down and watches me with obvious wariness as I take a tentative swallow. It’s exactly as fibrous as it looks.
I tuck my hands into the oversized pocket of the hoodie and slowly lower myself, resting my head sideways on the cool surface of the table. Michael reaches out, his palm finding my forehead. I notice he doesn't even bother with the pretense of stroking my cheek this time. It’s a direct, clinical check.
"Anything you wanna do today?" his voice is low to match the quiet of the room.
I give a small shrug against the wood. "I don’t know. I can hardly think straight."
"Overwhelmed?"
I shake my head slightly. "I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Just... foggy." I blink, the light above the stove feeling a bit too bright. "My parents are probably on their way over."
He gives a small understanding nod, pushes his own glass aside and moves his chair closer before imitating my posture. He rests his head on the table, face-to-face with me, his eyes locked onto mine. He offers a small, private smile, and I find myself returning it. In the back of my mind, I’m struck by a sudden, sharp certainty. If we'd stumbled across each other at any point in our lives, in a crowded library, a rain-slicked street, a noisy terminal, and he had looked at me like that...I would've spent years wondering about that specific stranger.
"I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts," he says lightly, his eyes dancing, "but tragically, I’m currently unemployed. My capital is purely emotional at this point."
"You're my boyfriend," I murmur, the word still feeling like a new discovery.
"I certainly hope so," he says. "Otherwise, I’ve spent a lot of money on tiny umbrellas for a very beautiful acquaintance."
He studies my face for a long beat, his gaze softening into that focused look. "There’s a place I found," he then says, "A 'hidden gem,' according to an online post with a million views and thousands of people all claiming it’s their secret sanctuary."
"What place?"
"A garden," he says. "I think it’ll do you some good. If you want to go."
"My parents..." I start.
"They can tag along," Michael says easily. "But it doesn't have to be today. We have time."
I give a slight shake of my head. "I want to go. I think it'll be good for everyone."
He seems content with that. He nudges the glass back toward me. "Tell you what. If you finish this, I'll get you whatever you want. Consider it a blank check for your whims."
A subtle smile tugs at my lips. "We’ve graduated to bribery. I really am sick, huh?"
The silence stretches for a moment, the lightheartedness dipping into something deeper. I look at him, my voice dropping to a low, light rasp. "Then how about more chances, can I have that?"
He blinks, his brow furrowing slightly. "Chances for what?"
"Anything," I say. "Everything."
He lets out a soft breath. "Ryan, I love you, but I absolutely refuse to engage in pessimistic conversation on top of this disgusting drink. I can only handle one misfortune at a time." He reaches out and taps the rim of my glass. "If you drink half of it," he says, leaning his weight against the table with a look of high-stakes negotiation, "I’ll let you read the first line of the first chapter. The one I’ve been wrestling with for days."
I perk up. "Just the first line? Give me the first page and I’ll consider the whole glass."
He shakes his head, a slow, resolute movement. "Absolutely not."
"Two paragraphs," I counter, my eyes narrowing. "And I want a say on the punctuation."
"One paragraph," he says, holding up a finger. "And you keep your editorial red pen in your pocket."
I huff, looking at the glass. "Fine. One paragraph. But," I add, reaching out to tap the rim of his glass, "only if you drink your half, too."
He winces, looking at the liquid as if it might start speaking. "That wasn't part of the deal."
A tired but genuine grin breaks through my face. "If you finish yours, I’ll let you use 'peripatetic' in a sentence later today without rolling my eyes."
His brow twitches. "No eye-rolling? Not even a skeptical twitch?"
"Cross my heart," I assure him. "I’ll even pretend to be impressed."
He grabs his glass with the grim determination of a man facing a firing squad. I sit up, the movement making the room sway for a second, but I ignore it. I pick up the glass, tiny umbrella and all, and force myself to drink every last drop.