Chapter 38 It's real
RYAN'S POV
When you're sad, happiness seems disgusting. Fake. Obnoxious. It feels like it has no place near you, and you want to tear it away from anyone who dares show it. You hate those who experience it, hate those who urge you to try and experience it too, as if it’s some gift waiting to be unwrapped.
Earlier today, I saw two nurses laughing outside my room. The sound of their laughter, their joy, gnawed at something inside me. This intense, searing rage flared up, quick and violent. I hated them, for no reason other than the fact that they were happy and I was suffocating in my own head. I don’t know what happened to me, or why I felt that way. I’m not that kind of person. But the sharp bitterness of their joy, while I was mentally drowning, made me want to claw at the walls.
I woke up around five this morning, because I wasn’t feeling too good. I could’ve ignored it. Could’ve shrugged it off and just waited for my appointment on Monday. But for once, I tried not to be reckless. I told myself it was nothing, just a minor hiccup. I thought, If I just go now, get some confirmation, then I can go about my day. Because I was already feeling something I hadn’t felt in months....excitement. Like real, honest-to-God excitement.
I’d been planning on asking Michael to come by earlier, maybe we could order in, talk... just hang out. That would’ve been perfect. I hadn’t felt that way in so long, and I wanted to share it with him. I wanted to be normal, to have something to look forward to.
But then I got to the hospital. And the doctor, after running some tests, came back and said my hemoglobin had dropped sharply. Low enough to be dangerous. He didn’t ease me into it, no gentle buildup. Just straight to the point.
I told him I felt fine. That everything seemed okay. I didn’t feel any different than I had yesterday, but apparently, the numbers didn’t lie. He said I’d be admitted today, no argument. Not just for the day either....he said three days, four at most. I’ve already gotten a blood transfusion and they're monitoring me constantly. The doctor said we’d discuss adjusting my meds and coming up with a treatment plan later.
I tried to tell myself it wasn’t my fault. I forgot to take my meds last night, then I told myself one night wouldn’t hurt. Then I drank that wine with Michael. Because I should be allowed to drink wine. I should be allowed to have something normal. I wanted it, I needed it.
But now, lying here, I wonder if this is my fault. Guilt just eats at me. Because I stood Michael up today without an explanation. And I’m scared, because for the first time, it’s dawning on me that I’m actually sick. I knew I was. I felt it in my body, in my bones, in the way I couldn’t keep up anymore. But I was still functioning. I was still going to work, still pretending like I had a grip on things. Now, here I am, lying in a hospital bed, and it’s real.
I’m scared because this isn’t temporary. I don’t know how bad it’s going to get, but I know it will get worse. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground below crack open beneath you. And all I can do is stare, frozen, waiting for it to swallow me whole.
Michael’s on his way. And I wonder what he's thinking. He’s probably irritated, maybe even angry. I wouldn’t blame him. How could he not be? I stood him up and now I’m making him drive all the way to a hospital, of all places. He must think I’m strange and inconsiderate.
I thought about texting him, about telling him it was best if we just ended whatever this was. It should’ve been easy to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to break this scary connection we’ve got.
So instead, I fell asleep. And when I woke up, all I wanted was to be near him. I wanted to feel him close, to feel something that wasn't just this suffocating emptiness. To feel alive in a way that wasn’t tainted by this disease or my own self-doubt.
I’ve already asked the nurse to let him in when he arrives. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I can’t keep running from the truth. I can’t keep hiding behind this fog of shame and confusion.
Before I can form another thought, there’s a knock on the door. A gentle tap, but it feels like the whole world just collided into this sterile room. Then the door opens, just a sliver at first, and there he is. Michael.
His face is the first thing I see, and it’s a little more tense than I expected. A little more worried than I want it to be. His eyes meet mine, but there’s that hesitation there, that distance like he’s not sure if he should be here or if he’s walked into something he wasn’t supposed to see.
“Ryan?” he says softly, stepping into the room, voice barely a whisper, but it hits me like a storm.
I want to tell him I’m sorry. I want to ask him to forgive me for dragging him into this, for making him drive all the way here for something I should’ve handled differently. But the words get stuck. My throat tightens, and I just stare at him, fighting the swell of emotions that threatens to overtake me.
“Hi,” I whisper, a word so small, so insignificant compared to everything I feel, but it’s all I can manage.
I watch him as he takes in the room, his eyes scanning everything, but never quite staying in one place for long. Then they land on me, and it’s like a weight drops into my chest. He doesn’t say anything at first, just walks over, purposeful. There’s a chair next to the bed, but he pushes it aside and sits on the edge, close but not too close. Just enough for me to feel the warmth of his presence without him touching me.
I can’t look away as he lifts my glasses and places them gently on the little bedside table next to the water. For a beat, he looks away, almost like he’s giving me space. But then, he turns back to me, and his eyes hold something I can’t quite place. Then he asks....
“Did you lie to me? Is your cancer back?”
I blink, the words ringing in my ears before they even fully register. That voice of his, soft but heavy with something.
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head, maybe a little too fast. “I didn’t lie.”
I can feel the lie crawling at the edges of my words. “It’s not cancer,” I add, trying to make it sound right. Trying to make it sound safe. But then, before I can stop myself, I correct it. “It’s not that type of cancer... anyway.”
The silence between us thickens. Michael doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. His gaze narrows slightly, and he leans in. “So, it’s another form of cancer?”
I can’t help it, I smile even though I feel so far from okay. There’s a small, bitter twist in my chest, but the smile slips out anyway, like it’s the only thing I know how to do. “Yeah,” I say, almost to myself. “What’re the odds, huh?”