Chapter 41 I genuinely like you
The numbers kept improving. Every test came back just hopeful enough to keep me going. The doctors smiled more often than they frowned. They talked about trajectories and responses and long-term outlooks, and I clung to those words like lifelines.
It was brutal....physically exhausting and draining. I hated the weakness, the nausea, the endless appointments. I hated how small my world became. But there was hope. Real hope. The kind that sits in your chest and says, “This is temporary.”
So I endured it. I survived it on the promise that it would end, because deep down, I knew it would
“But now.....”
I trail off, because the difference sits heavy between us. Because this time, the hope feels thinner and more cautious. This time, the doctors don’t sound excited when they talk. They sound measured and strategic. Like they’re planning for something that doesn’t have a clean finish line.
I look back down at the book, my thumb still resting on the title.
“And now,” I continue quietly, “....it feels like I’m doing all that again, but without the same certainty. Like I’m supposed to fight just as hard, even though the future doesn’t feel nearly as generous.”
I don’t say the rest out loud, that it’s harder to promise yourself a life when you’re no longer sure one is waiting. That it’s harder to be brave when you’ve already been brave once and it didn’t last.
I lift my eyes to Michael again and he shakes his head, like he’s already decided my words don’t get to stay.
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not doing that.”
He leans in just a little, blue eyes holding mine, unflinching. “You’re talking like the absence of certainty means the absence of a future,” he continues. “Like because it doesn’t come wrapped in optimism and neat statistics, it doesn’t count. That’s not truth, Ryan. That’s fear.”
I start to respond, but he cuts me off with a small shake of his head.
“You were strong then because you are strong,” he says. “That didn’t vanish with time.”
His hand comes up, warm against my cheek. “You don’t have to feel hopeful. But you don’t get to give up. Not this early, definitely not while I’m here. If this gets hard,” he pauses, strokes my cheek, “....then we deal with hard. If it gets ugly, then fine...we deal with ugly. But you don’t pre-mourn your life and call it acceptance.”
He pauses again, like he’s choosing the next words carefully. “And you don’t have to believe you’ll be okay, but you do have to stay. And I won’t let you stop trying just because it feels safer to let go.”
Something in my chest fractures....not painfully. Almost like relief. I don’t trust myself to speak so I just nod, barely. And Michael stays exactly where he is, like that’s not negotiable either.
“Hope feels reckless,” I quietly say after a while. “Like tempting fate....if that makes sense.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Hope isn’t pretending everything's fine. It’s acknowledging the pain and choosing to endure it anyway. Ryan, you can't let the darkness win before it even touches you.”
I sigh, the sound leaving me like something I’ve been holding in my chest all evening. I watch him reach for the chocolate bar, the wrapper crinkling softly in the quiet room. He nods toward the door as he does it. “Checked with the nurse,” he says. “You’re cleared to have it.”
He takes a bite first, like he’s proving a point, then he reaches out. His fingers brush my lower lip. He holds the bar there until I open my mouth and take a bite. Only then does he smile, that small, private one, and place the rest in my hand. He does the same with the juice, lifting it, taking a sip, then passing it to me.
I watch him, trying to understand what he’s actually doing here....
It’s been five days. Five days since we met. That’s it. This...him sitting at my bedside, feeding me like I matter, doesn’t obey logic. At least not the kind I’ve built my life on.
I take the bottle from him, my fingers lingering around the glass. “Are you here because you feel sorry for me or because you feel obligated to be?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
He doesn’t even blink.
“I’m here because I want to be. And in case you've forgotten, I’ve recently committed to avoiding regrets. And I’d deeply regret being anywhere else.”
Something in my chest rattles with the force of his words. He slips off his zip up, sets it aside, kicks off his shoes. Then, without asking, he shifts onto the bed beside me. It’s too small for this, but he fits anyway. There’s no space between us. His shoulder presses into mine, solid and warm. He exhales deeply, like he’s been holding that breath all day.
He lifts the book. “Want to read?”
All I can do is nod. He opens it, then pauses. His voice drops when he speaks again.
“I’m glad you called,” he states. “You should always call. I don’t care what time it is, or how inconvenient your brain tries to make it feel. If you’re scared, or spiraling, or just don’t want to be alone....call. Don’t talk yourself out of it.”
“I’m not used to opening up to people,” I admit. “Especially not this fast.”
He subtly smiles and glances at me from the corner of his eye. “I have that effect, it’s the disarming charm.”
Then he turns fully toward me, expression softening. “But only with people I genuinely like.”
And for the first time tonight, the word miserable loosens its grip on me.
In this moment, I’m not miserable.
Just worn, just tired of pretending everything fits neatly into the world. The weight’s still there, but it’s bearable now, like I can press against it instead of being buried beneath it. The dark sits around me, sure....but I can breathe through it. I’m here, and that alone feels like a small victory.
Michael’s arm suddenly wraps around me, and he guides me closer like he already knows I’ll follow. I do. I shift until my shoulder fits under his chin, until the side of my head rests against him, light at first, then heavier when he doesn’t move away. He opens the book and settles it between us.
I glance at the page. Words blur. I’m aware of letters, margins, the weight of the paper more than the meaning of any sentence. My throat tightens for no good reason. Or maybe for every reason.
This feels dangerous. Not dramatic-dangerous. The quieter kind. The kind that sneaks up on you and rearranges your life before you realize you’ve agreed to it.
I stare at the page a second longer, buying time, then I breathe in his scent, his warmth, something unmistakably him, and the words slip out before I can overthink them into silence.
“I genuinely like you too,” I say.
It comes out fragile. Like I’m setting something down that might shatter if I drop it. I don’t look at him right away. I keep my eyes on the book, my heart thudding too loud, waiting for the weight of regret to follow. For the internal voice that usually tells me I’ve said too much, too soon.
Instead, his arm tightens just a fraction. Reassuring, like an answer given without words. Then his lips press to the top of my head, soft at first, then they stay. It's not a quick kiss. It lingers like he’s anchoring himself there.
I feel it everywhere.
My breath catches before I can stop it, a quiet, involuntary thing, and my eyes fall shut. There’s something unbearably gentle about the way he doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull away like he’s afraid of wanting too much. He just stays, mouth resting against my hair, his arm firm around me, like this is exactly where he means to be.
I tilt my head a fraction closer, not quite leaning into it, but close enough to admit I want it. Close enough to say this matters without speaking.
For a moment, I forget I’m sick.
For a moment, I forget I’m scared.
All I know is he’s here, and the loneliness I’ve been carrying loosens its grip....just a little, but enough that I feel it.