Chapter 39 You'll be okay
I look away then, because I can’t keep meeting his eyes. It’s too much, and I don’t know how to explain how everything feels like it’s shifting under my feet.
But Michael’s still here. He’s sitting beside me, close enough that I feel the gravity of his presence. I want to reach out. I want to grab him, but I don’t. Instead, I just keep talking, trying to keep it together.
“I’ve got T-MDS,” I start, trying to explain it like it’s just a fact, just something to say and move on from. “It’s a bone marrow failure disorder, where my body stops making enough healthy blood cells. It's because of the chemo—" I pause, feeling the weight of the words like they’re too heavy for my tongue.
And before I can continue, Michael cuts me off, “I know what it is,” he says, and it doesn’t surprise me. Even if we’ve barely known each other for long, I know he’s smart in that quiet, observant way.
He lets out a long, steady breath, his shoulders relaxing just a little. He shifts his position so he’s facing me more directly, and his hand, almost instinctively, reaches out to comb my hair back, the same way he’s been doing without even thinking. It’s becoming familiar now, something I find oddly grounding in the chaos of everything else. He seems to pull himself together, like he’s told himself, ‘Get a grip’. His eyes soften, but there’s still a hardness to the way he holds himself, like he’s bracing for something.
He nods once, a quick, curt movement, like he's making a decision, then looks at me with those searching eyes. "What’re the doctors saying? How bad is it? What’s the plan moving forward?" His voice is controlled, it’s clear he’s trying to keep the concern out of his tone, not wanting to make it worse.
I feel his hand slip into mine, his fingers wrapping around mine with a quiet ease. The weight of his hand against mine is comforting, but there’s something almost unsettling about how natural it feels, how quickly I’ve gotten used to it.
His voice is steady when he goes on, “And when did they catch it? If they caught it early, there’s got to be good treatment options out there. They just need to find the right one, and stick with it.”
I hear the conviction in his voice, the quiet, unwavering hope that spills from him as if he’s already decided for the both of us. It's not just a casual reassurance, it’s a certainty that’s both comforting and terrifying at the same time. The warmth in his tone is undeniable, like he’s already willing this to be true, for both of us.
His body leans in just enough that I feel the weight of his presence even more than I did before, and for a moment, it’s like I can’t breathe. Those blue eyes catch mine with a depth that leaves me feeling strangely exposed.
I blink, fighting the urge to shrink back, to hide from whatever this is, whatever he's offering without words. But I stay there, caught in his gaze, trying to hold onto some semblance of control.
His questions float in my mind, but I can’t grab any quickly enough. Instead, I find myself answering the only one I can still recall. “I was diagnosed a little over three weeks ago,” I say, my voice a little tighter than I want it to be.
Michael doesn’t say anything, just nods slowly, as though he’s processing each word. He reaches out, and before I can even fully register his intention, his hand is on my cheek.
The touch is unexpected, his thumb brushes lightly across the line of my jaw, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. The softness carries a weight to it, a kind of presence that I didn’t know I needed until right now.
And then he speaks.
"You’ll be okay," he says, the words leaving his lips like a promise. It’s startling, the conviction in his tone. He doesn’t sound uncertain or scared, not even a little. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I want to pull back, to laugh it off as the kind of thing people say when they don’t know what else to say. But the look in his eyes... the sincerity there... it makes me want to believe him, in spite of everything. It makes me want to let him make sure of it, even though the weight of that feels so much heavier than anything I’ve carried on my own.
“Have you told anyone else about this?” he asks.
I glance away, unable to hold his gaze. “I told the principal,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
He doesn’t press further, but I can feel his attention. He’s waiting, I think he expects me to say more. But there’s something in the way he’s looking at me, something that tells me he already understands.
“Anyone else?”
I shake my head, his gaze softens, but he doesn’t ask the question I expect. He doesn’t push. He already knows why I haven't.
There’s a beat of quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s just.... us.
“Is there anything you need?” his voice shifts to something more practical, more grounded. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine,” I murmur. I feel like I should say more, but I don't know what to say.
Then it hits me...Ember. She’s alone at home. She’s probably hungry. I didn’t even think about it until now, but I can’t leave her like this. The words are soft, barely a whisper. “Ember... I didn’t expect to be admitted today. I came in for a check-up, and she needs to be fed.”
It feels like a ridiculously big ask. I don’t want to ask him to do something for me again. But he’s here. And I need someone to care enough to help.
Without skipping a beat, he says, “I’ll drop by and feed her.” It’s said so matter-of-factly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
My heart feels a little less heavy at the sound of his words. “Thank you,” I say softly, the gratitude laced in my voice.
I reach for my keys on the bedside table, but before I can grab them, Michael’s hand is already there. He grabs them, as if to say, ‘let me take care of this for you’.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else you need?” his voice is gentle, but with a quiet insistence that makes me feel seen.
“If I think of something, I’ll call,” I'm not sure if I mean it, but it’s all I can say.
He stands up slowly, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. The moment lingers, and I feel a brief pang of reluctance as he prepares to leave.
“I won’t be long,” he says, like a promise. He lets go of my hand then, and I feel the absence of his touch more than I expected.