Chapter 33 Life is labor
MICHAEL'S POV
We underestimate how much effort normal life takes because effort is supposed to be invisible.
You’re not meant to notice the work it takes to wake up, answer messages, feed yourself, show up on time, care about things that don’t feel urgent but somehow still matter. When it’s functioning, it passes as character. When it fails, it’s labeled weakness.
But normal life is labor.
Not the dramatic kind, not the kind anyone applauds. The quiet, grinding kind that renews itself every morning whether you’re rested or not. People like to say you “get used to it.”
You don’t.
You adapt.
And adaptation is not relief, it’s just endurance with better posture. That’s why someone can seem functional while slowly disappearing inside their own routine.
The morning I met Ryan at the book forum, I woke up already tired of having woken up. I felt worn down in a deeper, more existential way. The kind that settled in before thought did. I lay there staring at the ceiling and thought, here we go again, and the thought didn’t even sound bitter anymore, just factual.
I pictured the day ahead....emails, deadlines, conversations that pretended to matter, and for a moment I tried to find something to look forward to. One thing. I came up empty. That emptiness felt louder than frustration. It felt like standing in a room where the lights were on but no one was home.
Still, I got up. Because that’s what adults did. Because responsibilities didn’t care about your internal collapse. I moved through the day irritated, keyed too tight, every small inconvenience landing harder than it should have. Existing felt heavier than usual, like gravity had been quietly turned up and I was the only one who noticed.
Then that evening, I saw Ryan.
He had this look....distracted yet observant, like he was half a step out of sync with the world. It’s the same look he has now, actually, sitting across from me in this restaurant. We’ve already ordered. There’s pretty loud voices around us, someone laughing too loudly at a nearby table. Ryan’s attention drifts past me, toward a group a few tables over. Early twenties, maybe. Someone’s birthday, judging by the candles and the terrible singing. They’re leaning into each other, unselfconscious. Laughing like time is still something that happens later.
Ryan watches them the way you watch a foreign film without subtitles...interested yet slightly removed.
I don’t say anything. I just follow his gaze and feel that familiar, dull ache settle in my chest. Not jealousy, exactly. More like recognition. They’re being alive without effort. Ryan finally blinks and looks back at me, like he’s remembered where he is. There’s something fragile in the way he smiles, something careful. The same look he had that first night. The same one that made me pause.
He seems thoughtful in that way I realize he gets when he’s circling something instead of diving straight in.
“Did you enjoy college?” he suddenly asks.
I take a second before answering, letting the memories surface....uneven and selective.
“It had its perks,” I say.
He looks at me over the rim of his glass. “Like what?”
“The usual,” I tell him. “Too much alcohol. Not enough sleep. Conversations that felt like revelations and turned out to be nothing. Temporary people who felt permanent because the timeline was short.” I pause, then add, “Sex that was more about proving you were alive than actually enjoying it.” I flick my eyes to him. “Why are you asking?”
He shifts in his seat, eyes dropping to the table like the answer might be written into the wood grain. “First semester,” he says. “I got put in this group for a project. Four of us. One of the girls....she was loud, confident....invited everyone to her birthday party.”
He exhales quietly. “I really didn’t want to go, but she made us promise,” he says, almost apologetic. “And I didn’t know how to say no. It was at this bar. That was my first time actually getting drunk.”
I arch a brow. “Your first time?”
“Yeah,” he says. “If you don’t count the one sip I stole from my dad’s bottle when I was fourteen.”
I smile despite myself. He goes quiet for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to keep going. I let the silence stretch.
“Something happen?” I ask eventually. “Do something embarrassing?”
He shakes his head. “No. That’s the thing.” He looks up at me then, more open. “I really liked it. I had fun. Way more than I thought I would. I was nervous going in, but after some time, I started to really enjoy it.”
“Alcohol helps.”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m sure that was a huge part of it. But I laughed, I talked to people. I allegedly danced.” His mouth twitches. “I felt like I’d accidentally stepped into the right version of myself.”
I feel something tighten in my chest at that.
“And then?” I prompt.
“The semester ended,” he says. “So did the project. Everyone scattered. No texts. No follow-ups. Nothing.” He shrugs, but it doesn’t fully disguise the loss. “It just stopped existing.”
I sit with that for a second, watching him. “That’s college,” I say finally. “A series of temporary lives you don’t realize you’re mourning until they’re already gone.”
He glances back at the table and watches them again. I know that look, I’ve worn it. The expression of someone remembering what it felt like to be briefly unburdened by consequence, to mistake a moment for a future. I follow his gaze, then look back at him as I reach for the bottle and refill both our glasses, the soft glug of wine filling the space between us.
“So, what do you do for fun?” I ask, sliding his glass back toward him. He hesitates, like he’s bracing for judgment that never comes. “Not much,” he admits. “I shop for books. Read them. Clean.” He winces a little, then adds, “I binge-watch Survivor.”
I hum. “Thrilling.”
He smiles, sheepish. “When I’m feeling really wild, I go sit in the park and people-watch.” He exhales through his nose. “The most out-of-routine thing I’ve done recently was actually going to that Book Forum.” He shrugs. “So yeah. My life’s pretty boring.”
I take a sip, studying him over the rim of my glass. “Do you enjoy those things?”
He nods without hesitation. “I do.”
The answer comes too easily to be a lie.
“Then why do you think your life is boring? Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
He goes quiet, eyes dropping to the red swirl of wine like it might offer guidance. For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
“I don’t know,” he eventually states. “I guess it doesn’t look like much from the outside.”
I tilt my head, eyes narrowed. “Since when did that become the measure?”