Chapter 19 Drifting Through
I turn fully, unable to help it, but he looks away immediately. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unfocused, like he’s watching a memory play out on the inside of his eyelids.
I keep my eyes on him, then shake my head. “No. I don’t.”
He smiles and nods, like he expected it. “Figures. You look like you’ve got your shit together... for the most part.”
“I don’t.”
He turns toward me, there’s a quiet gravity there that makes me pause. I finally admit, barely above a whisper, “I keep feeling like I’m behind. Like everyone else got a memo about how to actually live and I missed it. So now I’m just drifting through. Existing without any of the instructions.”
He smiles faintly, like he’s amused and intrigued at once. “Sounds like something you’d write in a secret notebook you'd never let anyone read.”
“I have one of those.”
“Of course you do,” he opens up his box again and pops a fry into his mouth. I watch him, timing my own bites. Haven’t eaten all day, couldn’t bring myself to, and honestly, I still wasn’t hungry when I asked him to bring this. But something about the rhythm of him makes me do the same, bite for bite, almost unconsciously. I realize I’m following him, matching him, letting him set the pace.
“If it’s any consolation,” he says, chewing, “I don’t think I know anyone who actually knows what they’re doing.”
I glance at him, skeptical. “You seem like you do, you claim not to, but it doesn't appear that way.”
He lets out a soft, amused laugh, like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “That’s just confidence-flavored anxiety,” he admits.
I watch him, curious despite myself. “So, the happier version of you,” I ask slowly, “the one who took that other path.....what would he be doing now?”
He leans back slightly, chewing the inside of his cheek. His eyes drift a fraction, like he’s running through memories or possibilities. Then he shakes his head, almost dismissively. “Doesn’t matter.”
I raise an eyebrow. It does, I can see it.
He catches my look and turns it back on me, sharp now, searching. “What’s wrong with the way you’re living?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it that makes me pause. “You seem content. Passionate, even.”
I hesitate, and the weight of it presses down. “ am....or I was,” I admit softly.
“What changed?” he asks, and it’s the same question I asked him in the coffee shop. I shake my head before the words spill out. A part of me wants to tell him, even though he’s basically a stranger. Wants someone, anyone, who isn’t my boss to know, to understand. But I don’t.
Instead, I say quietly, “I guess I just regret the tiny moments. Those seconds where I could’ve said or done something different and I didn’t.” I let my hands rest on my knees, stilling them. I think about the tiny things....the calls I never made, the texts I didn’t send, the plans I skipped for no reason. Little moments that wouldn’t have changed the world, but maybe they’d have kept me from feeling this alone. Maybe one small yes somewhere could’ve made all the difference.
“Humans are hardwired to regret. It’s evolutionary, keeps us cautious. The brain is obsessed with gaps, with what it didn’t do,” Michael says, leaning back and tilting his head back to look at the stars before going on. “But just because it flags every minor mistake or hesitation doesn’t mean it matters. Obsessing over them doesn’t fix them. It just makes you exhausted for nothing. You should let those tiny moments fade, I assure you they're insignificant.”
I huff out a breath, trying to process it, and tell him, “You make it all sound so manageable.”
He shrugs, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Force of habit,” he says, the words casual, but there’s weight behind them. “Being constantly surrounded by spiraling, unhinged writers brings out my inner curator of chaos. It’s either that or start screaming in public, and I don’t have the lung capacity for that.”
I mirror him without really thinking. Not long after, he shifts closer....too close, and my breath hitches. I throw him a glance, but he just murmurs, “Cold.”
I don’t move away. Part of me secretly likes that he came closer. My fingers start tapping against my knee, almost unconsciously. I realize I’m craving this....human contact, so much it’s bizarre. It's warm and safe. Something I’d forgotten existed in a way that feels absurd and delicate all at once.
I clear my throat. “So, does resigning mean you won’t write that piece on ‘A Body Made of Quiet Things’?”
He smirks, “I could write one just for you, but it’d probably be shallow. Surface level. I can tell the book’s important to you. I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.”
I let a small smile slip. “I read a few of your pieces today. Needed something to preoccupy my mind.”
“Yeah?” His tone tilts playful, but there’s curiosity under it. “And your verdict?”
I shrug, eyes on the stars. “You already know they’re good. You’ve got a way with words.” I pause. “I’d ask you not to resign yet, selfishly. Just for that piece. But...” I trail off. “....I can see you’re not happy. I wouldn’t want you stuck doing something that doesn't feel right for you.”
He smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes. “Actually, now I’m genuinely curious about the book. Maybe you could narrate it for me.”
I stay silent, watching the stars. “Maybe.”
“Yeah...” he hums. “.....maybe.” Then, more serious, “Preoccupy you from what?”
I frown. “What?”
“I mean, you said you needed to preoccupy yourself. ‘Preoccupy’.....fill your mind to avoid something. So what were you avoiding?”
I swallow, thinking about the hospital visit, shaking my head. “It’s personal.” My gaze drops to my hands. Then, almost abruptly, I ask, “What’s your favorite book?”
He huffs softly. “I thought we were closer than that.”
“We hardly even know each other.”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m trying to fix. But it’s hard when you keep filing every detail about yourself under ‘personal.’”
I don’t answer. I just stare at the stars, letting the quiet swell around us again. He reaches out, and his finger lingers just a second too long over the back of my hand....just circling the same spot. I pretend I don’t notice, doing nothing. I stop tapping my fingers against my knee, all of a sudden aware of the warmth spreading from where he touched me.
“I’ve had a few I’ve liked over the years,” he says eventually. “The most recent.... well, it wasn’t recent at all, was probably ‘The Salt Path’.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” I mutter, glancing at him. “What’s it about?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking up to the sky as if the stars themselves might explain it. “It’s two people walking. They've lost everything, and decide to walk the coastline. Everything’s gone, but they keep going. Finding themselves, I guess.” He turns his gaze back to me, eyes sharper now. His fingers curl around mine, linking with a casual ease that somehow makes my chest tighten. I’m aware of every brush of skin, every tiny press of his hand against mine.