Chapter 36 Life is for the living
I text Ryan two more times, nothing invasive. Nothing that would give away the way I’m watching the screen like it might blink back at me if I stare hard enough.
Four hours pass and still, no reply.
So I do what I said I would. I sit down and try to draft my list.
In theory, it should be easy. Everyone has a list, even if they pretend they don’t. Things they’ll do when they have the time, the money, the right person beside them. And now, apparently, I have the company. The problem isn’t logistics.
The problem is authenticity.
I don’t want to write down scuba diving just because it sounds impressive. Or learning Italian in Tuscany. I’ve traveled, I’ve been impulsive. I’ve chased novelty hard enough to know it dulls fast if there’s nothing underneath it. I stare at the empty page longer than I’d like to admit.
And slowly, uncomfortably, it occurs to me that there isn’t much I’m actively looking forward to. Not in the way people mean it when they talk about wanting things. Not with anticipation, not with hunger.
Is this life?
The question unsettles me more than it should. My college roommate used to say, constantly, ‘Life is for the living’. He said it like a joke, like a warning, like an excuse all at once. Usually right before doing something reckless or staying out too late or choosing chaos because it felt better than stillness.
Life is for the living....
I roll the phrase around now, older, less convinced. What does that mean, exactly? And what does it say about the rest of us, the people whose circumstances make “living” feel like an inaccessible luxury? The ones who are surviving, enduring, maintaining. The ones for whom life is less a gift and more a narrow corridor they keep moving down because stopping isn’t an option.
What about people for whom life has been consistently unfair? Cruel in ways that don’t teach lessons or build character or justify themselves later? The phrase suddenly feels exclusionary. Like a door slammed by people who were lucky enough to run.
I type, delete. Type again and delete again. Eventually, I write one thing. Experience Ryan’s list with him.
I don’t dress it up or qualify it. I let it sit there, honest and exposed. A couple more hours pass. I call him and the line rings. Then silence. Not voicemail, not rejection. Just nothing. I check the time. We never actually discussed when or where we’d meet. Whether I was supposed to pick him up. Whether he works weekends. Whether this was one of those loose plans people make and quietly let dissolve.
I tell myself not to spiral, that I’ve known him for days, not years. That this doesn’t warrant concern.
And yet...
There’s this low, persistent thread of unease that seems to have woven itself into my awareness since Ryan appeared. It’s irrational, unfounded and impossible to ignore. Whenever I think of him, look at him, listen to him....whenever I simply exist in the same conceptual space as him, there’s a corresponding sense of vigilance. Like my body knows something my mind hasn’t caught up to yet. I resist naming it, but the dread is there all the same.
I hold out longer than I should.
Long enough for restraint to stop feeling like maturity and start feeling like avoidance. Long enough for the silence to gain weight, to turn from neutral into pointed. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that people disappear all the time, that phones die and plans dissolve and Saturdays are allowed to be unproductive.
Still, I text him and ask, ‘Hey. Are you okay?’
I stare at it before sending, acutely aware of how it might read. Concern tipping into something less flattering. Something unhinged and paranoid. A man projecting significance onto a connection that hasn’t had time to earn it yet.
But it’s a Saturday. Realistically, Ryan should be free. And despite how briefly we’ve known each other, he always replies. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes with a delay and an apology that feels unnecessary. The pattern exists and that’s the problem. Silence stands out when you’ve been conditioned to expect sound.
Hours crawl by.
By three p.m., I stop pretending I can focus on anything else. The effort alone is exhausting. I shower, change clothes and check my phone again. Nothing.
The decision happens without ceremony. I get in the car and drive. I rehearse explanations I hope I won’t need. I was in the neighborhood. I wanted to check in. I was worried....no, not worried, that’s too much. Just... making sure everything’s okay.
I’m aware, painfully so, of the risk. Of how this could look. A violation of an unspoken boundary I might be imagining entirely. And yet, I keep driving. There’s something about Ryan that disarms the part of me that usually knows better. Or maybe it sharpens it, heightens my awareness in a way that refuses to be soothed by logic.
I pull up outside his building and sit there for a second longer than necessary, hand still wrapped around the steering wheel like it might anchor me. This is stupid, I tell myself. This is what people do when they spiral. They show up uninvited and convince themselves it’s concern when it’s really anxiety wearing a nicer coat.
I get out anyway and walk to his door, counting the steps without meaning to. I knock, firm but not aggressive. Nothing, so I knock again. Then once more, lighter this time, as if volume is the problem, as if he’s simply asleep on the other side of the door and not elsewhere.
I wait long enough for my pulse to start sounding loud in my ears. I call him and it rings until it stops. Then I hear a thin, reedy sound slipping through the crack beneath the door.
Ember.
She meows again, louder now, impatient. Not distressed exactly, just calling. The way cats do when they know someone should be there and isn’t.
“Hey,” I murmur, stupidly, toward the door. As if she can hear reassurance through wood and locks and whatever space Ryan has disappeared into. I try the handle but it doesn’t budge. I stand there anyway. I don’t know what I’m waiting for....footsteps, maybe. His voice, muffled and apologetic. A text buzzing in my pocket to make this whole moment feel dramatic in hindsight.
Nothing happens. Time stretches, I check my phone again, as if sheer will might force it to light up. I knock once more, softer now, almost embarrassed. Ember meows again. I linger longer than I’ll ever admit. Long enough to feel ridiculous. Long enough to feel guilty. Long enough that leaving starts to feel like abandonment, even though staying accomplishes nothing.
Eventually, I step back.
The walk to my car feels longer than it should. The air outside feels heavier, like it’s pressing down instead of filling my lungs. I get in, close the door, and sit there with my hands in my lap, staring straight ahead.
Something is off.
And the worst part is how familiar that feeling already feels....like this quiet dread has been waiting for Ryan all along, patient and ready to surface the moment he goes silent.