Chapter 123 Focus on what's here
I exhale slowly, the memory settling heavy in my chest. Julian had learned something most people never fully understand. That wealth is a shock absorber, not a cure. It softens the impact. It makes the experience more comfortable. But it doesn’t change where you’re headed. Money can buy the best care, the quietest rooms and the softest sheets but it cannot buy time. It cannot buy breath. Not when the body decides it’s done negotiating.
Angel had phrased it simply. "Money is just a way to feel like you’re doing something. An illusion of agency in a situation where there is none."
"No," I say, shaking my head firmly, trying to physically ward off the comparison. "That’s not what this is. He was already at the end. He was throwing money at a ghost.” My voice is firmer now, because I can see where his mind is going and I’m not letting him stay there. He watches me as I lean in slightly. “But this isn’t about throwing money at something and hoping it bends,” I add, softer now, but no less certain. “This is about giving you another option. One that actually has a chance of working.”
I hold his gaze and wait. I expect him to push back. To say something, anything, that keeps this anchored in something I can work with. But when he finally speaks, it’s not about the trial. It’s not about the transfusion. It’s not about anything I can fix.
“What do you think happens after someone dies?”
I lean back, my eyes narrowing. I know I look unimpressed, maybe even a little cold. "Why on earth are you asking that now?" There’s an edge there, I don’t try to hide it.
"Because I’m curious," Ryan says, a ghost of a challenge in his eyes. "Am I not allowed to be curious about death just because I’m flirting with it? Or is that automatically a sign that I’ve given up too?"
My grip on my phone tightens until the plastic casing groans. He holds my gaze, searching for a flinch, a deflection, or a lie.
"I’ve always wondered," he adds softly. "Even before all this. And you’re the only one who ever seems to have any idea what I mean when I say anything, Michael. You're the only one who really understands. So I want to know what you think."
I lean back further in the uncomfortable plastic chair, forcing the clinical fog to clear. Let the distance settle in, not between us but in my head. Because I can feel it creeping in again. That distortion. That instinct to look at him and see more than him. To see the illness and fragility. I force it back, strip it away until what’s left is just Ryan. A person, not a prognosis. It’s harder now than it was weeks ago but I manage it.
“I think that’s it.” My voice is flat in a way that isn’t careless but grounded. “When you die you’re gone.” I don’t dress it up. Don’t reach for something comforting that I don’t actually believe. "I don't think there’s a waiting room or a golden gate. I think when the brain stops firing, the story just... ends. You don't 'go' anywhere because the 'you' that could go is a biological spark that finally flickered out. To me, anything else is just a fairy tale we tell ourselves because we’re too vain to admit the universe can exist without us. Because the idea that this is all there isn't a comfortable thought.”
I glance at him briefly, then back ahead.
“Life is the thing that matters. I focus on what’s here.”
What’s real, what exists and what can still be held onto. And right now, that’s him.
"Nothingness," he whispers, testing the weight of the word. Then...“Do you want to know what I wish?”
His voice is quieter now, not as heavy as before. I soften without thinking. “Always.”
There’s a small shift in his expression. A ghost of a smile. I lean forward instinctively, elbows braced on my knees, closing the distance like I might be able to coax more of it out of him if I just stay close enough. Like proximity might help it linger. “Tell me.” I say.
He exhales lightly, eyes drifting for a second before settling back on me. “I wish there was some kind of confrontation therapy for death. Like exposure therapy,” he continues, voice gaining a quiet thread of thoughtfulness. “You know, like with heights. Or confined spaces. You face it enough times, and eventually your brain stops reacting like it’s a threat. But you can’t really do that with death, can you?” he adds. “You don’t get to try it out. Ease into it. Confirm it’s not as bad as you think.”
There’s something unsettling about how calmly he says it. Like he’s not spiraling, just thinking. I open my mouth but he beats me to it. “I don’t want the trial, Michael.”
The words land clean. Final in a way that makes something in my chest tighten immediately. He doesn’t look away this time. “If I’m not ‘doomed’ yet,” he continues quietly, echoing me back to myself, “then we should just wait.”
I open my mouth to counter, but he cuts me off, “The doctors said I’d feel extremely shitty after the first two rounds,” he adds, the word sounding almost unfamiliar coming from him. “So technically,” He gives the smallest shrug. “...everything’s going according to plan.”
A breath leaves me in a quiet huff, and before I can stop myself, a small, disbelieving laugh follows. I reach out, catching his ear gently between my fingers and giving it a soft, playful tug. “Ryan Ashbrook,” I murmur, tilting my head at him, “did you just curse?”
My tone is light and my grip lingers just a second longer than necessary. Because I need the contact. Because I need to feel something solid when everything else feels like it’s shifting under my feet.
He flushes. It’s subtle, but it’s there. A faint bloom of color pushing through the pallor of his cheeks, like something warm briefly remembering how to exist beneath everything else. I catch it immediately.
His gaze flickers away for a second, like he’s half-aware of it too, and then he weakly lifts a hand and gestures vaguely toward the IV line.
“The platelets,” he says, quieter now, like he’s offering a perfectly reasonable explanation. “They’re probably altering my ability to self-edit.”
I stare at him for a beat. Then I nod once. “Yeah,” I say dryly. “Probably, because that’s exactly how that works.”
His mouth twitches slightly. I let my fingers slip from his ear, but not completely away. My hand trails down, brushing along the side of his neck. We hold each other's gaze. I see a shadow of a smile forming on his face, mirrored by the one I feel pulling at my own lips. I’m the first to break, a soft huff of air escaping me, and Ryan follows, his shoulders shaking with a silent, weak chuckle that makes the IV line dance.
I move my chair as close as the metal frame allows. I fold my arms on the edge of the high hospital bed, resting my head on them, turned slightly to the side. After a long time, his hand, light as a falling leaf, finds my hair. His fingers tracing slow, hesitant paths through the strands. I close my eyes, letting the sensation of his touch be the only thing in my universe.