Chapter 78 Expectations
The drive back is short. Too short to prepare, too long to ignore. Ryan hasn’t said a word since we left the school.
He sits in the passenger seat with his head turned toward the window, watching the city blur past like he’s separate from it. Like he’s already halfway elsewhere. He looks... diminished. Not physically, not in a way anyone else would clock. But there’s usually something about him....a current. A brightness that feels intentional. Like he chooses light, even when it’s irrational to do so. And right now it’s dimmed.
I park in front of his building and cut the engine. The silence swells, he doesn’t move.
“Ryan,” I say gently.
He hums in response, barely audible.
“You were tired,” I tell him. “We were told that would happen. The chemo.... it’s supposed to do this. The exhaustion, it’s expected.”
I hate the word, but I use it anyway. Like logic can anchor this. “There’s nothing wrong with resting,” I add. “You’re allowed to rest.”
Another small hum. A nod. He reaches for the door handle, I reach out at the same time and grip his shoulder. He goes still, then slowly....almost reluctantly, he turns to face me. His eyes are clearer now. Too clear. The haze replaced with something quieter.
“Talk to me,” I say.
He blinks once. “About what?”
“Anything,” I reply. “Whatever’s in your head.”
There’s a beat of silence and in it, I take him in fully. He’s pale. More than before. The fever flushed out of his cheeks, leaving something fragile behind. His lips are dry. His collar slightly askew from where he loosened it earlier. The brightness I’m used to, the thing that makes rooms lean toward him, is faint.
And I don’t like it....I don’t like it at all.
He exhales slowly.
“There’s nothing else to say.” His voice is steady. That’s what makes it worse.
“You just said it.”
I don’t interrupt.
“The exhaustion was expected. The fever was expected.”
His gaze drifts briefly to the dashboard, then back to me. “The nausea. The dizziness. The brain fog.” A faint, humorless curve touches his mouth. “The hair loss. The infections. The.... whatever comes next.”
Each word lands like a clinical bullet point.
“Every single symptom,” he says softly, “is going to be expected. And there’s nothing I can do but expect it.”
He looks away for a second toward the windshield, toward nothing, then back at me.
“It’s fine,” he says.
Something in me snaps at that.
“No,” I say immediately, shaking my head. “It’s not.”
He stiffens slightly.
“This is how it starts,” I continue, my voice lower now. “A tiny speck of pessimism. One small surrender to it.” I lean closer, not aggressive, just urgent. “And then it grows quietly. You won’t even notice. Until one day you’re continuously expecting the worst.”
His jaw tightens.
“And I know you think if you brace for it, it’ll hurt less.” The streetlight outside flickers. Shadows move across his face. “But that’s not how it works,” I whisper. “It doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes you smaller.”
He looks at me then. And I can see the exhaustion isn’t just physical, it’s existential. He’s terrified of disappearing in pieces. Of becoming a list of symptoms instead of a person. I slide my hand up from his shoulder to his neck, steady and warm.
“You’re allowed to be tired Ryan,” I tell him. “You’re allowed to hate this. You’re allowed to be scared.” My thumb brushes lightly against his jaw. “But don’t you dare call it fine.” Because fine is the first lie people tell before they start letting go. And I will not watch him drift into that quietly.
His fingers are still curled loosely around the door handle when he speaks. His voice is so low I almost miss it.
“I want to keep teaching.”
The words feel pulled from somewhere deep. He swallows, then adds, “I need to.”
My first instinct rises sharp and immediate.... tell him to take time off. Tell him his health matters more. Tell him classrooms can wait. Tell him to slow down....But I look at him. And there’s something in his eyes I recognize now. A stubborn, almost rebellious flicker. Like the world has tried to shrink him today and he’s pushing back with the only weapon he has left. If I tell him to stop, all he’ll hear is ‘You’re already fading.’
And that’s not what he needs in this moment, so I push aside my instinct and I nod. “I know.”
His shoulders loosen, just barely. I keep my hand at the side of his neck. He studies me for a long moment. A car passes, life continues in indifferent motion.
“I just....” he starts, then stops.
His gaze drops briefly to his hands. “I don’t want to become someone who’s always at appointments,” he admits quietly. “Or someone who cancels class because he’s tired. Or someone students pity.”
The word pity tastes bitter in the air between us. “You’re not,” I say immediately, but he looks unconvinced.
“You’re a teacher who happens to be sick,” I correct more gently. “Not the other way around.”
He leans back slightly into the seat. The rebellion in his eyes hasn’t disappeared, it’s softened into something more vulnerable. We sit there for a few minutes after that. The engine is off, the air between us feels fragile but calmer than before. Then he slowly turns to me.
“How’d your meeting go?” he asks.
The question is too casual.
I blink. My gaze darts to the windshield, then to the dashboard clock, then anywhere that isn’t him for half a second. I clear my throat.
“I resigned,” I say.
The words land quietly in the car. Ryan frowns. Just a small crease between his brows as he studies me.
“What time was it supposed to be at again?” he asks.
I let out a soft scoff, aiming for lightness. “Why does that matter?”
His eyes don’t leave my face.
“You know it’s something I’ve been meaning to do. I just figured it was best to get it over with. Just rip off the band-aid.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, he just watches me. And I can feel the way he’s assessing my tone, the timing.... motive. It's probably the way he does with literature, with subtext. He knows me pretty well by now. He knows it wasn’t today’s plan. The silence stretches, I try to hold his gaze evenly. I want him to see certainty, not sacrifice.
After a moment, he nods. Just once. Then he reaches for the door handle again. This time, I don’t stop him. He opens the door and steps out into the evening air. The car feels colder immediately. I watch him walk toward the building entrance....slower than usual, but steady. And for the first time since I left that office, the weight of what I’ve done settles fully in my chest.
Not regret, just consequence. And the quiet understanding that I didn’t resign from a job....I chose him. And there’s no undoing that.