Chapter 97 Concern vs Absorption
We stop at a café mostly because Ryan’s tired.
He doesn’t say it outright, but I see the way his shoulders drop a little when we pass the small place with fogged windows and warm light. The kind of place that smells like roasted coffee and sugar even before the door opens.
So we go in.
Inside, it’s warm and dim in a comforting way. It feels like the sort of place where time slows down. Ryan orders tea and a slice of chocolate cake.
I order coffee.
And if I’m honest, I’m already preparing myself for the usual routine. I expect him to move the crumbs around the plate, to stare at the steam rising from the cup with that distant, clinical detachment I’ve come to dread.
Our orders arrive and Ryan pulls out his phone. He leans forward slightly and takes a picture of the table...his tea, the cake, my coffee, like the moment needs to be archived before it can begin. Then he sets the phone down and takes a bite.
He takes another.
Then another.
Not hurried, not forced. Just...eating. I realize after a while that I’ve stopped touching my coffee. I’m just watching him like I’m trying to carve the moment directly into my memory. I can't help it. I’m trying to memorize the way the light hits the silver fork, the way he chews, the simple, miraculous act of him nourishing a body that's trying to betray him.
Ryan doesn’t look up when he finally speaks.
“Don’t turn into Angel Jimenez.”
I frown.
“What?”
He lifts his eyes to mine then, calm and steady. “She let the suffering move in,” he says, “At first it was compassion. Then empathy. Then something heavier.” His fingers tap absently against the side of his teacup. “Eventually she stopped being a person who witnessed pain and became a person who carried it.” The words settle over the table. Ryan meets my eyes again. “You have to keep living, Michael.”
His gaze flickers briefly toward himself.
“You’re starting to orbit the cancer. And it’s not even yours. I can see you disappearing into it. Stop.”
Something in my chest tightens. My hands wrap around my coffee mug, the warmth grounding but not enough to loosen the knot forming somewhere behind my ribs.
“I’m not orbiting it,” I say slowly. “I’m being concerned.”
He studies me for a moment.
“There’s a thin line between concern and absorption,” he says. “One keeps you present. The other slowly pulls you under.” His voice stays gentle, but there’s something deeply certain in it. “You should learn how to balance there. Right on that edge. Without letting gravity decide for you.”
We sit there for a moment, life continuing in the background like it always does. Finally I exhale.
“Alright,” I say. His eyebrow lifts slightly. “But only if you stop with the random bouts of pessimism,” I add. “I’m not a fan.”
Ryan chuckles softly at that. The sound is quiet, but his grey eyes soften in a way that makes something in my chest ache.
“I’d like to,” he says. Then he tilts his head slightly, almost amused by his own honesty. “But pessimism is technically a medical side effect.”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, to fight the logic of his despair, but he reaches across the table. His hand finds mine. It’s shockingly cold, a jarring contrast to the thick layers he's wearing, the chill of it slipping into my skin. But his grip is certain.
“Maybe we should return to our original agreement,” he says and I blink.
“No regrets.”
The words land softly but they carry weight. There are a hundred things pressing against the back of my teeth....arguments, reassurances, promises that feel too fragile to say out loud. Instead I swallow them, I tighten my grip on his hand. And I nod.
“No regrets,” I whisper.
When we step back outside, the sun is out.
Not fully, Seattle rarely commits that hard, but enough. The clouds have thinned into long pale streaks, and the light spills down onto the street like something cautiously hopeful.
Ryan pauses beside me on the sidewalk. We both tilt our faces up for a second, soaking it in. He exhales softly, like the sun itself has done something kind for him personally. Then his hand finds mine and our fingers lace together and we keep walking.
The Island is alive in that quiet, coastal way. People wandering slowly between shops, street stalls set up along the sidewalks selling everything from handmade jewelry to strange little sculptures that probably mean something deeply philosophical to someone.
We wander through a couple more galleries first. Ryan moves slowly through them, stopping in front of paintings and installations with the same thoughtful curiosity he brings to everything else. I try to look at the art too, but if I’m honest, my attention keeps drifting back to him.
The way his head tilts when something interests him.
The way his eyes narrow slightly when he’s thinking.
Eventually we drift back onto the street.
There are stalls lined up now, little wooden tables covered with handmade things. Wool scarves, carved bowls, glass pendants catching sunlight like small trapped rainbows.
Ryan stops at one of them.
He picks up an hourglass.
It’s small and elegant. Thin glass chambers connected by a narrow throat where pale sand slips through in a slow, steady stream. He turns it thoughtfully between his fingers.
“Well,” he says lightly, “this seems like a hilariously on-the-nose souvenir.”
I give him a look. Not a harsh one, just... a look. He catches it instantly. His mouth pulls into a guarded little smile.
“Right,” he murmurs before he places the hourglass back down. “Maybe not.”
A few stalls down, there’s a table filled with small handcrafted wooden boats. Not toys exactly, more like delicate carvings, each one different. Some polished smooth, some painted, some left raw so you can still see the grain of the wood. One of them catches my eye. It’s simple. Just a small sailboat carved from pale cedar, the sail made from a thin curved piece of lighter wood. I pick it up, turn it once in my hand, then hold it out to him.
“For you.”
Ryan blinks. He takes it carefully, like it might somehow break. For a moment he just looks at it, then he smiles. Not the polite kind. The kind that spreads slowly, lighting his whole face like I’ve just handed him something absurdly valuable.
He glances up at me. “Thank you.”
Something warm and painful shifts quietly in my chest. I pay and we keep walking. Eventually we wander into a bookstore.
Ryan stops just inside the doorway. And then he visibly lights up. The place is cozy and cluttered in the best possible way. Tall wooden shelves stacked with books, little tables scattered with staff recommendations and handwritten notes. Ryan turns slowly in a circle, taking it all in.
“Oh no,” he mutters.
I glance at him.
“What?”
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking around like someone who’s about to lose control of themselves in a very specific way. “I’m getting too excited,” he says, “I need to calm down.”
I smile faintly.
“There’s a word for that, actually.”
He looks at me, curious.
“What word?”
“Vellichor.”
His eyebrows lift.
“It’s the strange wistfulness people feel in bookstores,” I explain quietly. “The awareness that there are more stories here than you could ever live through. More lives than one lifetime could possibly hold. It’s supposed to be nostalgic, but on you, it just looks like a kid in a candy store who’s decided he wants to eat the glass jars, too."
He glances slowly around the shop again. The shelves, the endless rows of spines. His expression softens.
“Vellichor,” he repeats. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh. “Sounds like a medieval disease."
I chuckle, the sound rich and genuine, and the rest of the tension leaves me. "Go. Find your prey." I say, nudging him forward. “If you start chewing on a first edition of Moby Dick, I promise to intervene.”