Chapter 192 Until

Chapter 192 Until
By the time we were back at Michael's apartment, I had stopped pretending I was hungry.
There was no point.
Hunger implied that my body wanted something. Mine didn't seem to want anything lately. One evening, we were in the bathtub, the water warm enough to make me sleepy. Michael was behind me, his arms loosely around my waist, my back resting against his chest. I had my eyes half closed and was watching the water move around my knees.
For a few minutes, I could almost convince myself I was somewhere else.
I kept my eyes on the water, watching the faint ripples move around. It made me feel as though I were floating in a pond somewhere far away from all of this, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, between being myself and simply inhabiting my body.
I felt half asleep, half present.... and somehow only half alive.
Michael was quiet for a while. Then, as casually as he could manage, he said, "You haven't really been eating."
I kept looking at the water.
"I know."
The words came out rough and low. Even those two words hurt my throat. I hoped that was enough. I hoped he wouldn't make me talk. I loved talking to him. I loved hearing his thoughts, his stupid observations, the way he could turn absolutely anything into a conversation that somehow lasted an hour.
But tonight wasn't one of those nights.
"I spoke to Parsons," he said. Something in his voice changed. "We're going to the hospital tomorrow."
I used what felt like the last of my concentration to turn around.
"Why?"
He looked at me. "Because you're not eating."
There was resignation in it. Not anger or accusation. Just the tired acceptance of something neither of us could keep pretending wasn't happening. I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him I had just finished an awful round of chemotherapy. That my body had been through hell and needed time to settle. That of course I wasn't eating. That food tasted wrong, my mouth hurt, my stomach hurt, swallowing hurt....everything hurt. But halfway through forming the argument, I realized I didn't have the energy to actually make it. So I turned back around.
"Okay."
And I let myself float. The truth was, I felt barely connected to anything. Nothing sparked. I didn't want to read. I didn't want to play with Ember. I didn't want to find somewhere nice to go. I didn't want to watch Survivor and I didn't even want to talk.
Not just talk. Talk to Michael. That was how I knew something was wrong.
The next day, we went to the hospital. Parsons was unusually careful when we arrived. Not alarmed, at least, he didn't let himself look alarmed. But there was a softness to the way he spoke that I recognized immediately.
He examined me. Asked me questions about the pain. Asked when I'd last managed a proper meal, how much I'd been drinking, whether I'd been vomiting, whether I'd had abdominal pain. They took blood and ran more tests. Eventually, he sat down across from us.
"The chemotherapy has caused fairly significant mucositis," he said. "Your mouth and throat are inflamed, and we're also concerned about involvement farther down the gastrointestinal tract. That would explain why eating hurts."
I stared at him. It sounded ridiculous when he said it that simply. Something as ordinary as eating. Something I was supposed to do because it was good for me. Something that had once been automatic. Now my body had somehow turned it into a punishment.
Michael leaned forward. "What can we do?"
Parsons hesitated for barely a second. "Right now, we need to make sure Ryan is getting adequate nutrition and hydration while this settles." I already knew I wasn't going to like the next sentence. "We may need nutritional support."
My stomach dropped. "What kind?"
"We'll start by having our dietitian assess him. Depending on what you can tolerate, we can consider enteral nutrition. But given the extent of the mucositis and the gastrointestinal symptoms, I think temporary parenteral nutrition may be more appropriate if you're unable to meet your needs."
I stared at him in disbelief despite this having been an expected outcome of this visit.
IV nutrition. A bag replacing something my body was supposed to be capable of doing on its own. For some reason, that was the thing that broke through the fog. Not the chemotherapy or even the hair, but this. I had gotten to the point where someone was discussing feeding me through a vein because I couldn't eat. I looked down at my hands because there was something humiliating about it.
I knew it wasn't supposed to be. I knew there was nothing shameful about needing help from medicine. Parsons wasn't judging me. Michael certainly wasn't. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it were two entirely different things.
I felt defective. Like my body had quietly resigned and everyone else was now figuring out how to keep it running for me. Michael's hand found mine and his fingers slipped between mine. I squeezed weakly.
Parsons continued explaining what would happen, how temporary it could be, how they'd monitor my electrolytes, glucose, liver function and fluid balance, how the goal was simply to get me through this period until I could eat again.
Until. That was the word I held onto.
Until....
I looked at Michael. He was watching me with that familiar expression. The one that tried to convince me he wasn't terrified. I wished I could do the same for him. I wished I could believe myself.
"How long?" I asked.
Parsons looked at me. "How long what?"
"Until I can go home."
The question sounded smaller out loud than it had in my head. Parsons glanced at Michael, then back at me. "I want to speak with the dietitian first. Once we've assessed exactly what you need and how you're responding, I'll be able to give you a more definite answer."
I nodded like that was enough. Michael reached over and adjusted my beanie.
It didn't need adjusting.
I knew that. He knew that. It was something to do with his hands.
Parsons stood. "I'll have a nurse show you to a room."
I didn't like the sound of that. There was something permanent about a room. I'd been imagining this as a quick interruption. A room made it feel like I wasn't here to visit anymore. I followed the nurse down the corridor with Michael beside me, and when we reached the room, I went straight to the window.
Outside, people moved through the hospital grounds with ordinary urgency. I found myself watching them instead of thinking about anything at all.
“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” Michael suddenly said.
I turned around. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting loosely on his knees, watching me with that particular look he'd perfected. Like he was always trying to read the parts of me I wasn't saying out loud.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
I leaned back against the window. “I’m tired.”
I was going to add something else. Something reassuring, probably. Something that would make his shoulders loosen. But before I could, Michael held out a hand. “Come here.”
I didn't hesitate. There were some things I'd stopped pretending I didn't need. I crossed the room, and he caught my wrist gently, guiding me closer until I was standing between his knees. Then he shifted me onto his lap and wrapped both arms around me. I sank into him almost immediately. His warmth seeped through me. He smelled exactly like himself, which felt strangely important. It was something I had learned to associate with safety.
“Talk to me,” he murmured.
I rested my cheek against his shoulder. “I’m just having a bad day.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“We've been having quite a few of those lately.”
I gave a tired little laugh. When I shifted to look at him, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. Then my lips. Softly. Without asking for anything more than the moment itself. I smiled against his lips. Even now, after everything, I had never once doubted that Michael loved me. There had been moments when he'd looked exhausted beyond words. Moments when he'd gone quiet, or disappeared into the bathroom, or sat beside me with his face buried in his hands because he thought I wasn't looking. I'd seen him barely hanging on. I'd never mistaken that for a lack of love. If anything, it made me understand it better.
There was something extraordinary about being loved by someone who was frightened and exhausted and hurting, and still kept choosing you anyway. It made me feel lucky, and lucky wasn't something I felt about many things anymore.
My eyes drifted toward the door. That heaviness was back. It had been following me everywhere lately. Into hospital rooms. Into showers. Into sleep. Sometimes I woke up already carrying it.
“I'm scared,” I admitted.
Michael swallowed. “I know.”
His arms tightened around me. “You know what?” he said quietly. “You don't say that enough. Neither of us does.” He brushed his thumb slowly along my side. “This is scary, Ryan. It really is. We don't have to pretend it isn't.” He paused, his voice quieter when he continued. “We can be scared. We can say it out loud. It doesn't mean we're giving up.”
I lowered my eyes.
“I’m terrified.”
The words felt different once they were outside me. Michael exhaled slowly and pressed his cheek against my hair.
“Me too.”
And hearing him say it didn't make the fear bigger, but it did make it feel less lonely.