Chapter 90 Your problems are still relevant
People have a strange habit of shrinking their own pain.
Not consciously, most of the time. It’s something quieter than that. Something that happens in the background of the mind like a small adjustment to the volume knob of our emotions.
We look around.
We compare.
And suddenly the thing that hurts us doesn’t seem as legitimate anymore. Because somewhere out there, someone always has it worse. There’s always a more dramatic tragedy. A heavier burden. A story that sounds more deserving of sympathy.
So we minimize. We say things like ‘it’s not a big deal’. Or ‘other people are dealing with worse things’. We swallow the feeling before it fully forms because acknowledging it feels selfish somehow. But the truth is, pain doesn’t work like that. Struggles aren’t measured against the most extreme examples in existence.
They’re always relative.
If someone twists their ankle, it hurts. The pain is real. It exists inside their body whether someone else in another hospital bed has a broken leg. Whether someone somewhere else is recovering from surgery. Whether someone across the world is fighting for their life.
The ankle doesn’t stop hurting just because worse injuries exist.
But people treat emotional pain differently. They compare it upward until their own experiences feel trivial. I remember a student of mine once coming to class with red eyes and a half finished homework. She was upset after finding out that her parents were getting divorced. When she handed it in, she apologized. Because she’d seen a news story that morning about a natural disaster somewhere and suddenly her own fear felt small.
Like it didn’t deserve space anymore.
I remember telling her that the human heart doesn’t operate on a global ranking system. Her parents separating could still hurt even if someone else somewhere had lost their entire home.
Both things could exist at the same time. One didn’t cancel out the other. Pain is not a competition. And neither is struggle.
The car is still quiet. Michael’s hands remain loosely on the steering wheel, his shoulders slightly hunched like the weight of the day has settled there and refuses to move. I watch him for a moment. Then I shift in my seat, turning toward him a little more.
“A while ago,” I say after a moment, my voice quieter now, “you told me something.”
Michael’s eyes shift toward me again.
“You said you hated the phrase could’ve been worse.”
Something flickers across his face at that. I keep going.
“You told me that the fact that someone somewhere else has it worse...” I add, then tilt my head slightly toward myself, “....or right here, for that matter,” A small breath leaves me. “...doesn’t suddenly make your struggles less real.”
His gaze drops briefly to the steering wheel. He doesn’t interrupt, so I continue, softer now.
“Things are always relative to each other, Michael. Not to the absolute extremes.”
He doesn’t say anything yet. So I take a slow breath and meet his eyes. “Your problems are still relevant.” My voice softens slightly while the corner of my mouth lifts faintly.
He leans back against the seat, shoulders settling into the leather like the weight of the day is still sitting somewhere inside his chest. He turns his head toward me and gives me a small smile.
It’s there, but it’s weak.
“I still don’t feel lighter,” he admits.
I shake my head slightly. “I wasn’t aiming for lighter.” My voice comes out softer than I expect. “Just, less alone.”
He watches me for a moment after that. Then he exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. I lift my hand slightly between us. An offering. He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers slip into mine, warm and familiar. For a second he studies our hands..Then he glances back up at me.
“You’re annoyingly good at this,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Talking?”
He shakes his head faintly. “Making people forget they’re miserable.” A small breath of amusement escapes him. “You should start charging.”
I let out a quiet huff of laughter, then murmur, “Correction....Making you forget.” My mouth curves slightly. “My services are selective.”
Something soft shifts in his expression. We both lean toward each other at the same time. The kiss isn’t like the quick one from earlier. There’s no rush to it. No attempt to disguise it as something casual. It’s slow, tender and a little bit fragile. The kind of kiss that carries everything we haven’t quite figured out how to say yet. The exhaustion. The fear. The quiet, stubborn affection that somehow still exists underneath all of it.
When we finally pull apart, Michael rests his forehead briefly against mine.
“I’m glad we met,” he says quietly.
The words settle somewhere deep in my chest. “Me too.”
We stay like that for another moment before leaning back into our seats. The sadness hasn’t disappeared, but the air between us feels a little easier to breathe again. The parking lot stretches quietly around us. Michael’s thumb tracing small absent circles against my skin.
My thoughts drift again. Back to something that’s been hovering in the back of my mind since we left the doctor’s office. I hesitate before speaking.
“I think....” I start, then stop. Michael glances over.
“What?”
I stare down at our hands for a moment, watching the way our fingers fit together.
“I think I’m going to call my parents.”
The words feel strange leaving my mouth. Like I’ve just opened a door I’ve been standing in front of for weeks.
“I think it’s time.”
Michael nods slowly, he looks like he’s been expecting it. Then the corner of his mouth tilts slightly, something faintly teasing slipping into his expression.
“Did the heartwarming interaction with my father finally convince you?” he asks lightly. I glance at him.
“Did witnessing such a glowing display of paternal affection make you suddenly crave some of your own.”
I scoff, shaking my head. Michael shrugs faintly. “I’m just saying. My father has a way of inspiring people.”
“Inspiring people to relocate to different continents,” I mutter.
That pulls a quiet laugh out of him. But the humor fades quickly when I look back down at my hands again.
“What am I even supposed to say?” I ask quietly.
The question is genuine...heavy. Because the truth is I don’t know where the conversation begins.
Do you open with ‘Hi, how are you? before casually mentioning that your bone marrow has started malfunctioning?’
Do you soften it first?
Delay the worst part?
Or do you just say it bluntly and let the silence fall where it may? I shake my head slightly.
“How am I supposed to just drop it on them?”
Michael squeezes my hand gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.
I glance at him. His voice is steady again.
“It’ll be hard,” he continues. “There’s no easy way to say something like that.” A small pause. “But we’ll figure it out.”
We.....
The word settles somewhere warm in my chest. And the idea of making that call feels slightly less terrifying.