Chapter 47 Why not?
MICHAEL'S POV
It’s strange, how quickly the brain can form attachments. Psychological research says that emotionally charged encounters can start shaping neural pathways in under a minute. That when a stranger triggers a reaction.....heightened emotional arousal, a sense of personal meaning.....the brain doesn’t just let it go. It clings to it, for weeks, even months. And you don’t even realize how much power it has over you, how much it’s changing you. How a single moment with someone, just one, can mold you in ways you’ll never quite unlearn.
I’ve always known most people act different around me. Your personality shifts depending on who you’re with.
You are not one fixed self. You are a pattern that adapts. Different people activate different personalities in you....different humor, different tone, different courage. In the same way, who I am around other people isn’t necessarily me. It’s a version of me. I’ve got different pieces of me that I throw on depending on the moment, depending on who’s there. We all do it. We perform ourselves for the people around us. It’s like we’re always adapting.
But Ryan.....There’s something about him that doesn’t make me feel like I’m wearing anything. I don’t feel like I’m pretending. I feel real. As if this version of me, the one that comes out when he’s near, is the true version. The one that was always buried beneath all the other faces. And it’s fucking terrifying because this version of myself is the one that’s most vulnerable. The one that needs someone, and God knows I don’t trust that side of me.
Right now, we're sitting in my car, parked outside an independent movie theater. The sunlight's hitting the windshield just right, making everything feel a little hazy. Ryan was just discharged, and I was dropping him off....at least, that was the plan. But then he turned to me, that quiet smile playing at the edges of his lips, and casually said, “We never actually got to watch a movie together.” Like it was some afterthought.
Then he said we should go and do so.
I glanced at the time, not even noon, and asked him, “You mean now?”
And he nodded, not even blinking, and asked... "Why not?"
It’s just two words, just a casual throwaway question. But they hit me hard with how simple, how utterly unguarded they sound from him. People, myself and Ryan included, spend so much time second-guessing themselves. So much time thinking about what could happen if they just acted. What might go wrong, what might get complicated.
But why not just do it?
Maybe it’s not just about watching a movie. Maybe it’s about something deeper.
A spark of recklessness. A shift in the usual way of doing things.
I reach over before I can stop myself and press the back of my hand to his cheek, then his forehead. The gesture is instinctive, almost unconscious. Cool skin. Warm skin. Measuring something I can’t actually measure.
He turns his face slightly into my hand. “I’m fine,” he says softly.
“You were just discharged,” I remind him. My voice comes out gentler than I expect. “You should probably be home. Resting.”
He gives me that look. The one that’s equal parts stubborn and luminous. “I’ve rested enough.”
There’s a quiet defiance in it. Not reckless, just tired of being told to pause his life. We lock eyes for a beat too long. Something unspoken passes between us.
I nod. “Okay.”
The word feels bigger than it should.
“What are we watching?” I ask, because if I keep looking at him like that, I might start saying things I’m not ready to say.
He shrugs lightly and says, “Whatever’s showing.” Like the point isn’t really the movie.
We step out of the car at the same time, doors closing in soft unison. Without thinking, we drift toward each other as we walk inside....shoulders brushing, steps unconsciously matched. It’s natural. Like gravity.
The theater is mostly deserted. This early on a Tuesday, normal people are at work.
I should be at work.
The thought flickers through me, thin and distant. Emails piling up, deadlines. I don’t care that I’m not there. In fact, standing here beside Ryan, I realize I don’t think I’m going back. Not to that version of myself. Not to the life that felt like obligation more than intention.
We scan the glowing boards. Action. Thriller. A horror neither of us comments on. We continue walking and drift toward the hallway that leads to the smaller screening rooms, and that’s when I see a framed sign propped on an easel near the entrance.
February Feature: Classic Romance. One film each week. Soft lighting, cursive font. The theater trying very hard to be charming. Tonight’s title is written in looping white script...
Before Sunrise.
I glance at Ryan at the exact same time he glances at me.
Of course.
“This is either fate,” I murmur. “Or punishment.”
He steps closer to read the fine print, hands in his pockets. “You’ve seen it?”
“I think so.”
He turns his head slightly. “You’ve seen it? Or you think you’ve seen it?”
I consider this seriously, because accuracy matters. “I’ve seen a version of it.” I gesture vaguely toward the poster....a pretty girl, a good-looking guy, foreheads nearly touching, gazes locked like the gravitational pull between them is doing most of the storytelling.
“They’re all the same,” I say. “Two implausibly attractive people staring at each other like eye contact alone is a legally binding contract.”
Ryan’s mouth twitches.
“I’m almost certain,” I continue thoughtfully, “...that in the one I saw, they both died at the end.”
He blinks, shakes his head. “I don't think that’s this film.”
“Are you sure? Because statistically, someone usually dies in these. Either one or both of them. Sometimes it’s metaphorical death. Sometimes it’s tuberculosis. Occasionally it’s a tragic misunderstanding in the rain. But death is involved. It’s practically a genre requirement.”
Ryan studies the poster again, then me. I shift my weight, then look at him fully. “So you’re basically assured to like it,” I add lightly. “Given your documented attraction to tragedy.”
There’s no bite in it, just warmth and something else I don’t name. He holds my gaze a fraction longer than necessary. The lobby lights catch in his eyes, softening them. For all my sarcasm, my chest feels strangely tight. We decide on it.
There’s still twenty minutes before it starts, so we buy popcorn that's too large for two people and drinks sweating condensation onto our hands. The butter smell is overwhelming, nostalgic. We sit in the wide vinyl chairs outside the screening rooms, knees angled toward each other.
He grabs the first handful of popcorn. I watch him chew and I feel something steady inside me.
I should be anxious. He was in a hospital bed this morning. There are words like cancer and chemo and ‘control but not cure’ hovering somewhere in the background of my mind.
But right now, he’s here, pretending he’s not tired.
And I’m here. Choosing him on a Tuesday before noon....because why not?