Chapter 93 I hate today
The word lands somewhere deep in my chest. It sounds so grand, so terrifyingly real, anchored in a world where I thought I’d only ever have "patient" or "teacher" or "loner." It’s a title that implies a future, a commitment that defies the diagnosis I just handed her.
"I wanted to assure you that he’s in good hands," Michael continues quickly, his tone softening to comfort her. "I’m taking care of him. I’m right here with him."
There’s a long silence. I can almost hear her voice, frantic and questioning, filtering through the speaker. Michael nods solemnly. "That’s true...he is," he says to her, eyes flicking to me briefly, and I wonder what was said about me. Then he goes on, "The doctors did say the first few cycles might be tough, but that’s normal in cases like this. He’s already finished his first cycle. There's some side effects, of course, but Ryan’s strong, he’s handling it all as best as he can."
He sounds so certain. So steady. I listen, as he recites his phone number to her. I can picture her clearly, sitting in the basement, her hand trembling as she scribbles the digits down. She’s writing it because she doesn't trust me....not because she thinks I’d lie, but because she knows I’d omit the truth to spare her.
She needs Michael because Michael is the witness I never allowed her to have.
After a few more minutes of quiet murmurs, Michael finally pulls the phone away and hands it back to me.
“Ryan?” my mum says softly when I bring it to my ear.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll tell your father when he gets back,” she says. “We’re still coming. We’ll get a flight soon.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
My chest aches.
“I love you too.”
And then the call ends. The apartment falls completely silent. Michael sits down beside me on the couch. Without saying anything, he wraps one arm around me and gently pulls me with him until we’re both leaning back against the cushions.
I let my head rest on his shoulder, the exhaustion finally catching up to me. For a while, neither of us speaks. Then after a beat, he murmurs softly, “Ryan?”
"Yeah?" My voice is barely a ghost of a sound.
There’s a hint of something playful in his voice when he says, “Will you be my boyfriend?”
I turn my head slightly to look at him. He raises one eyebrow. “You kinda have to say yes now,” he adds casually. “Your mum already thinks you are.”
I study him, and the sadness is still there. It’s a deep-seated ache that hasn't moved an inch since his father walked out the door. It’s in the tight set of his jaw and the way he’s holding his breath, waiting for me to be the one thing that doesn't completely break today.
I feel a bone-deep exhaustion settle over me, a literal heaviness that makes my limbs feel like lead. My conversation with my mum is still echoing in my head, the reality that my results are plateauing, the crushing reality that I have to walk away from my classroom, from the kids. And I love this man. I want to spend every waking second exploring this new, terrifyingly beautiful thing we have, but my body is a failing engine. I want to be his strength, but right now, I’m barely my own.
I hate today....
I hate the unfairness of it, how we finally found each other just as the world started pulling the rug out from under us.
"Is that a no on the boyfriend thing?" Michael asks softly.
I try to speak, but there’s a lump of jagged glass lodged in my throat. If I open my mouth, I’m going to cry, and I simply don't have the fuel for a breakdown. I just shake my head, my eyes burning. He leans closer immediately, his voice softer now.
“Hey...”
His hand lifts gently, warm fingers resting against my cheek as he tilts my face toward him. His thumb brushes over my skin, gentler than I feel like I deserve.
“So it’s a yes?”
I nod.
His eyes move across my face, searching, making sure he’s reading me correctly. He lets out a breath, but it isn't one of relief, it’s just air. There’s still that sadness in his voice when he speaks again.
"You know," he starts, his voice dropping into a hollow, haunting register. "Today was the first time he’s ever been here. To my home." He looks around the room, and suddenly I see the space through his eyes. The curated art, the perfect lighting, the intentionality of every shadow.
"Whenever I pictured finally having him over, I imagined it differently," there's a bitter edge to his sadness. "I kept his favorite scotch tucked away in the back of the kitchen cabinet. I keep a bag of fucking Blue Mountain coffee in the pantry, even though I can't stand the taste of it. I even styled this place how I know he likes it..." He lets out a small dry laugh. “And he finally came. He stood there, looked me in the eye, and told me he didn't understand what I was complaining about. He told me I’d been given more than enough.“ He looks back at me, his eyes glassy and devastatingly lonely. "He basically said wanting to be seen as a person was just me being ungrateful."
His hand is still cupping my cheek, his thumb resting just beneath my eye like he’s trying to keep the rest of the day from spilling out of it. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.
Weaker.
Like he’s holding something fragile together inside himself. “But it’s okay. Because maybe it was time.”
I watch his face as he says it. The careful way he’s choosing the words. The way his eyes drift for a second before coming back to me. “Maybe it was time to walk away from all that. To figure out who I actually am without trying to earn someone’s approval all the time.”
His thumb brushes lightly along my cheek.
“And it’s okay,” he adds softly, “because I have you.”
The words land somewhere deep inside my chest. And I try not to say it...I really do. But the thought rises anyway, dark and unavoidable.
“But for how long?” I whisper quietly.
The moment the words leave my mouth, Michael shakes his head. Firm and immediate. His hand tightens slightly against my cheek as he holds my gaze.
“No.”
There’s something steady in his voice now. Something resolute.
“We’re not doing that.”
I blink at him.
“I’m not letting you do that,” he continues. His thumb presses gently under my eye again. “We’re not jumping ahead to imaginary disasters.”
His tone softens slightly. “Instead, we’re going to go back to your place. We’ll water your million and one plants. And if you’re feeling up to it, we’ll read something. Or subject ourselves to yet another dreadful episode of Survivor.” The quiet humor in his voice is gentle. “Then we’ll fall asleep, and tomorrow we’ll wake up, and today will be over.”
His eyes hold mine.
“And all this pessimism and doubt and depressing nonsense our brains keep producing? Those get to stay in yesterday.”
He studies my face for a second.
“Okay?”
My fingers curl around his wrist before I even realize I’m doing it. I hold onto him, and I nod. Michael squints at me slightly.
“Use your words,” he says lightly. “I need a verbal contract on that. None of this silent nodding business.”
A small, tired smile finally slips onto my face.
“Okay,” I manage.
His expression softens. Then he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.
The world is still falling apart, my body is still a battlefield, and his father is still a shadow, but at least I can manage to promise him tomorrow.