Chapter 20 Just one person
I've learned that life doesn’t collapse all at once. It thins, frays at the edges. It becomes something you hold carefully, like old paper....still intact, but no longer forgiving. I move through my days with reverence now, aware of how easily everything tears.
I look down at our hands....how they’re joined so easily, like they’ve always known where to fit. I feel the pull to lean into him, and I know, with a quiet certainty, that if I did, he wouldn’t pull away. He’d make room. He’d let it happen like it was the most natural thing.
What I want hits me then, sharp and honest. Not crowds, not some grand social life I force myself into. Just one person. One. Someone I can talk to the way I talk to myself....without translating the mess into something palatable. Someone I can text when the sadness stops lurking and starts sitting beside me. Someone who doesn’t need the edited version.
I’ve been doing this alone for so long. Even before the diagnosis, it was just me carrying things quietly. And now, when I think about what’s probably coming, I’m terrified that I’ll face all of it the same way. Alone.
“I also really like one called How to Sharpen Pencils.” Michael says, dragging me back to the present.
I swallow, barely above a whisper. “What’s that one about?” My focus is still on our joined hands. He smiles, and it’s too bright, too vivid, like sunlight caught in the wrong place. “It’s exactly what it says. A step-by-step guide to making your pencils dangerously sharp.”
I can’t help the small, breathless laugh that escapes me. “Of course it is.”
He shrugs, eyes softening. “Sharpening pencils helps me relax, I have an entire box of them. I’m not very good at it otherwise.”
“You seem pretty relaxed to me.”
He tilts his head, a slow smirk curling his lips. “Well, it depends on the company.”
I finally let my fingers curl fully around his too, “You know, you might have a problem.”
He frowns, brow quirking. “And what kind of problem would that be?”
I shrug, letting my eyes wander just enough to make him wait. “I don’t know.... obsessive-compulsive tendencies, maybe. You know, like those people on ‘My Strange Addiction’ or ‘Hoarders’, but....with pencils.”
He gives me a mock offended look. “First, you claim I’m depressed. Now I’m what? Pencil-addicted?”
I let my eyes drift shut, a smile tugging at my mouth before I can stop it. I could sleep right here, I think.....on this cold bench, beside this near stranger who doesn’t feel like one. The thought doesn’t alarm me. I’m exhausted in a way that goes deeper than missed sleep. My apartment is only a few blocks away, but even that sounds punishing right now.
I breathe out, long and steady, then open my eyes and turn my head. Michael’s sitting upright now, watching me. “It’s getting really late,” my voice is quieter than I intend. “I should go.” He nods, his expression giving nothing away, and after a beat he asks where I live, says he can drop me off. I know I should decline. I don’t have the energy to.
He stands first, tugging me up with him without letting go of my hand. The motion is gentle and unhurried, like he’s learned me already. I’m halfway upright when the dizziness hits. It comes fast and mean, a familiar wave I don’t have time to brace for. The world tilts, my heart stuttering into a sprint, and I stumble backward, the bench catching me before I can fully go down.
“Ryan?” My name, sharp with concern.
He leans in, one hand hovering like he’s deciding whether to touch me. I let out a breathy chuckle, more reflex than humor. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just....stood up too fast.”
I look up at him. He’s watching me closely now, eyes narrowed, not buying it. He's assessing, filing something away.
I stand again, slower this time. I pull my hand free before he can decide to make a thing of it. He lets go, though I feel the hesitation in it, like he would’ve held on if I’d given him half a second more. I start gathering the takeout trash, busying my hands. Michael mirrors me without a word. I expect him to ask if I’m sure I’m okay. He doesn’t. Instead, as we walk toward his car, he stays close enough that I can feel his presence like a guardrail.
The drive is quiet. A couple of blocks pass in silence, the city sliding by like it knows better than to interrupt. When we reach my apartment, he parks and turns toward me. His mouth opens, then closes. Whatever he was going to say, he swallows it back. Tries again. “So, when do I see you again?”
I watch him for a beat too long. I know I should stop this here. Be responsible. Be considerate. Be the version of myself that doesn’t invite things he’s not sure he can keep.
I don’t.
“There’s this restaurant,” I say instead. “One I’ve always wanted to go to but never have. No idea why.” I pause. “They do live music on Fridays. It's supposed to be really good.”
“Tomorrow’s Friday.”
I nod, not trusting myself to add anything else.
“I’ll be there,” he says.
I meet his eyes, my voice honest in a way that scares me a little. “I hope so.”
I don’t get out right away. The car feels too small suddenly, or maybe we're too aware of each other, of the inches between our knees, the way the air feels heavier for having us both in it. It’s charged in that quiet, electric way, like something’s leaning forward without quite tipping. His gaze keeps catching mine and holding.
“I liked talking to you,” I confess, “Thanks for showing up.”
He looks at me for a second longer, then nods once. “It was my pleasure,” and then, as if that isn’t enough, he adds, “And not in the automatic way people say that. I mean it....” He exhales, gaze dropping briefly, like he’s choosing the right thread to pull. “I was spiraling a little when I called you earlier. One of those nights where everything feels dull. Like life’s been on mute for a while and you don’t notice until it gets unbearable.”
I huff out an amused breath despite myself, shaking my head. “Are you about to lie and tell me I brightened your life or something?”
He snorts, a real one, and shakes his head, fighting the smile tugging at his mouth. “No. I’m not that poetic.” Then, quieter, more honest, “It was just good to see you spiral too. Made me feel like I’m not the only one out here losing his grip.”
Something tight twists in my chest. Because I’m not just losing my grip....I’m losing ground, losing time, losing things I don’t have names for yet. I shove the thought away.
“Have a goodnight, Michael,” I reach for the door.
He watches me for a beat longer, eyes unguarded. “I already am. Better than any night I’ve had in a long time.”