Chapter 107 Worlds colliding
The apartment feels unnervingly large now that Michael's left to pick my parents up. I lie on the sofa, thinking about the collision of worlds. My parents and Michael. It’s a crossover that should have happened over a stiff dinner in a neutral restaurant five years from now.
Michael, in his infinite, observant wisdom, left a playlist running before he walked out the door. It's intentionally ridiculous. A jaunty polka track is currently followed by a synth-pop song about space travel. I frowned at the speakers for a full minute before the sheer randomness of it broke me. Then I let out a soft, quiet thing that turned into a low, breathy laugh I didn’t quite have the energy to fully commit to. He knew that if the room was silent, I’d sink into my thoughts.
A few minutes pass like that. Or longer. Time’s a little slippery these days. At some point, Ember hops up beside me, circles once, then settles right on my chest like she’s claimed it. I huff out a quiet breath at the weight, but I don’t move her. She stretches out fully, purring almost immediately, her body going lax in that way cats do when they’re completely at ease.
And there’s something about that, the steady vibration, the warmth, the quiet trust of it, that always gets to me. I rest my hand lightly over her back, fingers brushing through her fur without really thinking about it.
There's something hypnotic about the frequency of a cat’s sleep. Her purring deepens and my eyes start to feel heavy. The music blurs into something distant. The edges of the room soften. And somewhere between one breath and the next, I slip. Not intentionally, just quietly. Like my body decided for me that it needed it more than I did.
I don’t hear the door. I don't hear footsteps or voices in the hallway.
"Ryan?"
There’s a gentle tap against my arm. Then again. "Hey, Ryan." I stir, my brow furrowing slightly as I drag myself back up through layers of sleep that feel thicker than they should be. My eyes open slowly, everything’s a little unfocused at first.
Then it settles.
Michael’s face comes into view, close and careful, his expression soft but alert. I blink up at him, still not fully there. He says my name again, quieter this time, and something in his tone pulls me the rest of the way back. The ceiling of my living room assembles itself. I shift slightly, Ember's already gone, I don’t even remember her moving.
Michael straightens just a little, then he steps aside.
And I see them.
My mum stands just behind him, a bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand, the other gripping the strap of her bag like she needs something to hold onto. She’s smiling, but it’s not easy. It’s the kind of smile you build. Carefully and intentionally. Like it has to hold more than it should.
My dad stands just behind her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He has that permanent, weathered scowl etched into his features, the one that makes him look angry even when he’s just contemplating the weather.
The silence in the room is sudden and absolute. The comical music has stopped.
I can feel all four of them watching me. Michael, the bridge between my two lives, and my parents, who're looking at me as if they’re trying to find the son they recognize beneath the person I’ve become.
I sit up slowly, Trying to bridge the distance between what I imagined this moment would be and what it actually is. The world tilting on its axis for a breathless second. A wave of dizziness washes over me and I have to plant my palms into the sofa cushions to keep from tipping. But as soon as my vision clears and I see them, truly see the fear etched into the familiar lines of their faces, the mask drops into place.
A smile appears. It isn’t forced, exactly, it’s more like a reflex. An instinctive, subconscious command to minimize the damage, to dial back the volume of their worry before it deafens us all. Like some part of me has already decided what needs to happen here. Like it understands that whatever I’m feeling needs to be softened.
Made smaller for them.
“Hey,” I say, my voice is a little rough, but it holds.
My mum moves first. She steps forward quickly, setting the flowers and her bag down on the coffee table with a kind of distracted care, like they don’t matter nearly as much as what’s in front of her. She sinks onto the cushion next to me.
“Oh, honey,” she breathes
She opens her arms and guides me toward her, tucking my head against her shoulder. She holds me with that specific, fierce gentleness that only a mother seems to possess. A touch that suggests she could stitch me back together if she just held on tight enough. It feels impossibly comfortable, terrifyingly safe, and absolutely heartbreaking.
I can’t recall the last time she held me like this. Usually, our affection is performative and brief. The "airport hug," the "holiday squeeze."
This is different. This is a mourning for the version of me that wasn't breaking. She presses a kiss to the top of my head, her breath hitching. "You’ve lost so much weight, Ryan."
I let out a weak, breathy chuckle against her coat. "Yeah, I've been told."
"Michael said your appetite's been shy lately," she says, smoothing my hair back with a trembling hand. She pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes glassy but determined. "But don't you worry. I brought the recipe for my potato leek soup. It’s smooth, and it’ll go down easy. I’m going to get some color back into those cheeks."
I smile at the predictability of her.
"I’d like that."
My father remains standing near the arm of the sofa. He isn't a hugger. He never has been, and the thought of him suddenly becoming one now, of him trying to navigate the geography of a physical embrace, feels more stressful than the silence. It would be unnatural, a departure from the man who taught me how to drive without ever touching my shoulder.
I’m relieved when he just stays where he is, his hands still buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Instead, he just looks at me, his brows drawn slightly together, that ever-present scowl sitting where it always does. Then he clears his throat, the sound loud in the small room, "How're you feeling, son?" he asks.
The question is blunt and simple, stripped of any emotional depth.
It’s the only way he knows how to ask if I’m dying.