Chapter 106 We'll keep living
RYAN'S POV
Yesterday morning, I woke up and thought of a quote.
That to be happy, you have to eliminate two things.... the fear of a bad future, and the memory of a bad past.
At the time, it felt simple enough. Like something I could translate into something practical. Something livable.
Just be here, in the moment. Take life as it comes, one minute at a time. So I decided I would. I’d experience the day as it was given to me, no projections, no overthinking, no quiet dread sitting at the edges of everything. And for a while I did. I let things happen as they came. Let myself feel them without reaching too far ahead or too far back.
Until I couldn’t.
Because the thing about living in the moment is that it only works when the moment is kind enough to let you. And yesterday wasn’t, not all the way through. And now it’s gone...just like that. Folded into memory whether I like it or not.
I’m on the couch because I got tired of the bed. Tired of how it started to feel like a place meant for recovery instead of rest. Michael brought over a pillow and a heavier blanket. Small things that feel intentional.
I sit curled into the corner of the couch, the pillow clutched loosely in my arms, more for something to hold onto than anything else. Michael sits beside me, close enough that I can feel him there even when I’m not looking.
“Hey,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter than usual. “I’ll go pick them up, yeah? Bring them back here.”
My parents, right. Their flight lands in... what, four hours?
I had a version of this in my head. Standing at the airport, spotting them first. Smiling, maybe even pretending everything was manageable enough to be softened for their sake. Now, I can barely lift my hand without thinking about it. I turn my head slowly instead, my gaze settling on Michael. And I just look at him. My brain feels a little off. Not quite slow, not quite clear. Like everything’s moving through something thicker than usual.
I blink once, then again.
He’s watching me in that way he’s started to, like he’s braced for something. Like he’s waiting for a shift, a sign, something he can respond to before it gets worse. It does something to my chest. I hold his gaze for a second longer. Then, quietly, so quiet it almost doesn’t feel like sound, “I scared you.”
It’s not a question, just a recognition.
There’s a difference between being tired
and being worn down by something you can’t fight. I’m starting to understand that now. Tired is something you recover from.
Something that passes. This, whatever this is, doesn’t feel like it’s passing. It feels like it’s settling. Like it’s learning the shape of me and deciding to stay.
I feel powerless.
And I’m realizing something I don’t think I wanted to before, that some days won’t be about living well. They’ll just be about enduring quietly. Getting through them without making too much noise about it. Without letting it show too much. But the worst part isn’t even the pain.
It’s him.
It’s watching someone I love feel it, my pain, and not being able to take it away. Not being able to do anything except sit there and carry it in his own way. Michael nods slowly, doesn’t lie.
“You did,” he says.
I try to smile, it doesn’t quite land but it’s there. “Sorry,” I whisper.
He shakes his head immediately, shifting closer like the distance itself is something he refuses to allow. His hand finds mine, wrapping around it without hesitation.
It's warm. That’s the first thing I notice, not the way our fingers fit. Not the quiet steadiness of it. Not even the comfort that usually comes with holding him. Just....warm.
And that feels wrong. Because normally, when I hold his hand, I notice different things. The texture of his skin. The slight roughness at his palm. The way something almost electric hums beneath it...not literal, not measurable, but there all the same. That quiet sense of rightness. Of peace. Of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Now, I’m thinking about the contrast in temperature. About how cold I must be for him to feel this warm. And I hate that. Because it means this moment, this contact, is being filtered through something else. Something clinical. Something that doesn’t belong here.
The cancer.
It turns something simple into something else entirely. I’m not just holding his hand, I’m noting the difference in heat.
I’m not just sitting close to him, I’m aware of how my body leans because it needs the support, not just because I want the proximity.
I’m not just breathing beside him, I’m noticing how shallow it feels, how uneven.
It’s like everything is being translated into symptoms. Into measurements. And I catch myself wondering...am I starting to understand us in units of this? In symptoms and side effects?
In how long I can sit upright before I need to lie down. In how steady my hands are when I reach for him. In how much energy it takes just to stay present in a conversation.
In how warm he feels against how cold I am.
The thought sits wrong. Deeply wrong. Because that’s not what this is. That’s not what we are.
I tighten my fingers slightly around his hand, grounding myself in it. Not the contrast in warmth, just the contact. Just him. Quietly trying to remember what it felt like before everything started being measured against something that’s trying to take more than it should.
I blink, once, then again, forcing back the slow, creeping weight of something heavier. Something that wants to settle in my chest and stay there. I push it aside because this is already enough. I don’t have the capacity to be even sadder on top of everything else.
“I don’t want them to see me like this,” I say quietly. My voice sounds distant to my own ears. The truth is, I don’t like Michael seeing me like this either.
There’s a beat. Michael shifts his thumb slightly against my hand...grounding.
“People are stronger than we give them credit for,” he says after a moment. “They can hold more than we think. More than we expect them to.”
I shake my head slowly.
“No,” I murmur. “They’re not.”
I glance at him, then away again. “They’ll just adapt. Because they don’t have a choice.”
And that’s the truth of it. People adapt to almost anything. To change. To loss. To things they once thought would break them completely, even unhappiness.
Especially unhappiness.
It doesn’t always look like strength. Sometimes it just looks like continuing. Like waking up the next day and carrying something you never agreed to carry. I exhale slowly, my gaze dropping to where our hands are still joined.
Michael is quiet for a second. Then he says, “There’s always a choice.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s weighing the weight of his own words.
“Just because they’ll adjust doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. Adapting doesn’t have to feel like giving up. It’s only a problem if they resign to it. If they let hope slip. That’s the real concern.”
He lets the words settle between us, gentle but firm, like a hand resting on my shoulder. “Adjustment isn’t surrender, Ryan,” he adds softly. “It’s just living. And living is what we'll keep doing. No matter how heavy it gets, no matter how hard. We won’t let hope slip.”