Chapter 17 Loneliness vs Solitude
RYAN'S POV
I sit on the bench with my hands shoved into my coat pockets. It’s the kind of dark that makes the park feel stripped down to shadows that don’t care who’s unraveling beneath them. The cold does absolutely nothing to help the way my mind keeps circling back to the same place.
The doctor’s voice still echoes. He’d pointed at numbers, at percentages, at cells on a screen that apparently mattered more than I did. High-risk cytogenetics, he’d said, tapping once for emphasis. Rising blasts. Words that sounded abstract until he translated them.
“This places you in a high-risk category,” he'd said.
He told me it was unlikely to behave slowly, that the changes in my marrow suggested progression rather than patience. I’d nodded along, even managed a question or two, because some part of me had decided, weeks ago, that I would be prepared for this. That I wouldn’t be surprised. That I’d already made peace with the idea that the news wouldn’t be good.
Turns out preparation is a lie we tell ourselves so the fall hurts less.
I thought I’d walk out of that room steady and intact. Instead, here I am, sitting in a dark park, feeling like something vital has been quietly, efficiently dismantled inside me.
I tried to stay home after the appointment. That apartment has been my hiding place for years. Safe and familiar. I fed Ember, watched her eat like nothing in the world had changed, then stood there far too long, staring at the wall like it might offer some kind of instruction. Eventually the silence pressed in too hard, and I realized I couldn’t stay.
The thing is.....I don’t have anyone. I’ve always known that, but tonight it lands differently. It’s not just a fact anymore.... it’s a presence, sitting beside me on this bench, close enough to feel.
There’s a difference between solitude and loneliness. I’ve spent most of my life convincing myself I was choosing the first. Solitude sounded intentional. Noble, even. A preference. Loneliness sounded like failure. Something weak.
So I chose solitude.
Weekend after weekend, I’d catch my reflection in the mirror and think, “This is fine.” I’d read books cover to cover, talk to Ember like she was a person, then go out to the store just for the hum of voices and the brief, scripted exchanges with strangers. My daily ration of human interaction. Enough to keep me functional. Enough to tell myself I didn’t need more.
I tilt my head back and look up at the sky. The stars are out tonight, scattered generously, indifferent and beautiful as always. They don’t look any different. They never do. There’s something almost cruel about that, the way the universe keeps being lovely while your internal world quietly caves in.
Headlights suddenly sweep across the park, and my whole body tenses on instinct.
A couple of cars have already passed, and every time I’ve craned my neck, stupidly hopeful, only to watch them disappear and feel that small, sharp drop in my chest. Expecting him. Wanting it to be him. Hating myself for it.
This one slows, then stops.
My pulse spikes so hard it’s almost dizzying. I narrow my gaze, breath caught halfway in, and then I see him. Michael steps out of the car, scanning the dark like he’s looking for something fragile he might scare off if he moves too fast.
In my head, I know I shouldn’t have let him come. I should’ve said no when he asked if I wanted company. I almost did. I felt the word right there, ready to save me from this complicated and reckless choice. But I didn’t.
Because I did want company. I wanted someone to sit next to me, not asking me to be better or brighter or okay. Someone to make the night feel less like it was pressing directly on my ribs.
The problem is that someone is him.
And Michael doesn’t just sit quietly in the background. He pulls at things I’ve kept carefully folded away. He makes feelings surface that I don’t have the energy, or the time, to untangle. I watch him walk toward me, unhurried. There’s a paper bag in his hand. The unmistakable crinkle, the bold red and yellow peeking out.... and in the other, a paper cup with a plastic lid and straw.
Despite myself, my lips curve. It’s not a real smile, more like something bruised trying to remember how smiling works, but it’s there.
He looks unfairly good in the dark.
The streetlights catch him in pieces....jaw first, then shoulders, then the slow, easy way he moves, and for a second it’s like the darkness has decided to wear him. He stops a couple of steps away, doesn’t crowd me. Just stands there, scans the empty park, the bare trees, the stretch of path disappearing into black. Then his gaze comes back to me.
“Any reason you’re sitting out here alone in the dark like a brooding Victorian poet?” he asks lightly.
I just look at him.
I know it’s impolite. I know I should say something. But I don’t stop. I take him in the way you do when you’re trying to memorize a feeling before it slips. The way the light cuts across his face. The quiet patience in the way he waits. He notices, and his eyes flick over my face, at the tension I haven’t bothered hiding, before they settle and narrow, the teasing falling away like it was never real to begin with.
“Are you okay?”
I smile a little wider this time. Because what am I supposed to say to that?
Instead, I gesture at the bag he's carrying, tilt my head and say, almost thoughtfully, “Does it have pickles?”
He blinks, stares at me for a long second like he's weighing the existential weight of my question. “I didn’t get around to dismantling and inspecting it,” he finally says, calm, a little wry, like the words themselves are an experiment.
“I’m not too fond of pickles, forgot to mention it.”
He sits, close enough that I feel the warmth of his jacket brushing against mine. He hands me a drink....Diet Coke, he specifies, and I take it cautiously, surprised by how much comfort I find in the simple gesture. “Thanks, you didn't have to.” I mutter.
He waves it off like it’s nothing, but I catch the edge of mischief in his smile. “Honestly, I was just terrified you’d choke. And I’ve always been told my mouth-to-mouth skills lean a little too intimate. Too much tongue being exchanged, not nearly enough oxygen.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, a little sharp, a little breathless. “And here I thought the go-to for choking was the Heimlich maneuver.”
He tilts his head, mock confused. “Is that a sex position?” Then he produces two boxes from the bag, handing one to me with a teasing glint in his eyes. I take it, feeling the intentional brush of his fingers.
I try to focus on the food, but sitting here next to him, stupidly comfortable, I can’t ignore how lighter it makes me feel. His presence presses against the cold like it could burn it away if he wanted. And I realize, that this need, this pull toward him, is so intense it scares me. Because I can’t tell if it’s genuine, or if it’s just fear and desperation taking root where I didn’t know I had soil for it.