Chapter 40 Miserable
What feels like a lifetime later, I pick up my phone, my thumb hovering over my mum’s name. It’s muscle memory more than intention. The screen lights up, and then I see the time. It's too late. I let out a quiet breath and lower the phone back onto my chest like that settles it.
It’s a convenient excuse. A coward’s one.
I know how this goes. I know the look on their faces when they find out late....hurt wrapped in worry, worry sharpened by guilt. Just like the first time. They’ll ask why I didn’t call sooner, why I didn’t let them be there, and I won’t have a good answer because I never do.
The truth is simpler and uglier, I’ve already said it once tonight. I’ve already said I’m sick out loud. I don’t think I have it in me to do it again. Especially not to my mum. I stare at the ceiling, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. I want to swing my legs off the bed, pull on my clothes, walk out of this place like it’s a mistake I can undo. Just leave and pretend this is all a misunderstanding, a bad chart, someone else’s name on my results.
My brain searches for a word big enough to hold all of this and lands on miserable.
That’s what I feel. Miserable and bone-deep tired. I crave something normal so badly it almost aches....my couch, my mug, Ember winding around my ankles like the world isn’t quietly ending. Anything that isn’t this.
Time stretches, warps. It drags its feet just to spite me. And then eventually, the door unlocks.
The sound is small, but it’s enough. Michael steps back into the room, and it’s like my lungs remember how to work again. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding myself together until this exact moment. He shuts the door gently and looks at me, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re still up?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, honest and tired.
He walks closer, and my eyes drop to his hands. He’s carrying a glass bottle of juice, cold enough that condensation beads along the sides, and one of those dense, healthy chocolate bars that look like they’re trying very hard to be good for you. Tucked under his arm is a book.
I scoot over without thinking, making space like it’s instinct, like my body decided this before my brain could interfere. He sits where he did before, on the edge of the bed, only closer now. Less careful.
He lifts the juice first. “Freshly squeezed,” he says lightly. “I can't claim credit, somebody else did the squeezing.... but I figured you'd appreciate a little illusion of effort on my part. Consider this a test of your gratitude.”
Then the bar. “And consider this your emergency happiness ration. For maximum effect, you should eat it while staring at me.”
I huff a quiet laugh before I can stop myself, the sound surprising both of us. Then he raises the book. One of mine. “I’m hoping you haven’t read this yet,” he says. “It looked suspiciously untouched. No aggressive underlining. No existential annotations in the margins.”
I shake my head. “No, haven’t gotten to it.”
He looks genuinely relieved, like that matters more than it should. “Good. I figured you could use a distraction.” He pauses, then amends it softly. “Or company. Or both.”
I lean back against the pillows, just watching him watch me. The way his attention settles like he’s not afraid of what he might see if he looks too closely.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say quietly.
The words feel wrong the second they leave my mouth. I try to rephrase them in my head....’It’s late, you should go home.’ Or ‘I’ll be fine, really.’ Or ‘You’ve probably got better things to do than sit with a miserable guy in a hospital bed.’‘
I don’t say any of it.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my keys, placing them back on the bedside table with care. Then he looks at me and shakes his head once.
“I’m staying,” he says. Simple and certain. I hate how much relief that brings. Hate it and need it. He doesn’t move right away. Then, like it just occurred to him, he adds, “Besides, I kind of made a promise.”
I glance at him. “A promise?”
“To Ember,” he explains, completely serious. “Told her I’d take care of you.”
I snort despite myself and he lifts a brow. “She loves me, by the way. Absolutely obsessed. Tried to lick my face and everything. Full commitment.”
I let out a quiet chuckle and shake my head. “Yeah...right, and I suppose she serenaded you while you were there too.”
His mouth curves, slow and smug. “It’s true, how else would you explain the paw print on my chest. I think I’ve been chosen.”
“Or,” I offer dryly, “...she thought you were food.”
“Also possible,” he concedes. “But I’m choosing the version where I’m special.”
The humor fades gently, like a tide pulling back. The room settles into a soft quiet. I’m about to ask how much he fed her, realizing a second too late that I never gave him instructions, that I just handed over my life in pieces and trusted he’d fill in the gaps....
But Michael speaks first.
His blue eyes lock onto mine like he’s been watching something unravel and finally decided to name it. “Why do you look like that?” he asks quietly.
I still, confused.
“Like you’re tired of fighting before anyone’s even asked you to,” he continues, voice calm but edged with something firm. “ It’s too early for that, Ryan. Usually the hopelessness comes after months...years. After setbacks. Not three weeks in.”
The words land carefully, not accusing, but they hit anyway. He’s not letting me duck away, like he’s asking me to be honest....if not with him, then at least with myself. And I don’t know how to tell him that it’s not that I don’t want to fight. It’s that I’m so tired of hoping and being wrong.
I reach out before I can stop myself, my fingers brushing the book’s cover, tracing the title like it might explain itself if I touch it long enough.
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro.
I wonder....quietly, stupidly...if Michael chose it on purpose. If there’s a reason or if it was just the first thing his hand landed on. I don’t ask. I just look up at him, and he’s still there, still waiting, patient in that way that makes you feel like you owe the truth.
“I’ve been through this before,” I say finally. The words come out softer than I expect. “And I hated every second of it. But I was optimistic because I was young–”
“You’re still really young.”
I nod, I do know that. That’s not what I mean.
“I know, I just—” I pause, searching for the right way to explain something that feels too big for language. “I mean young in terms of life. In terms of believing things.”
Back then, I had this certainty. This stubborn, almost arrogant optimism. I told myself I’d do better when I got better. That I’d live fuller. That I’d stop putting things off like time was guaranteed. I made vows in hospital rooms that smelled like antiseptic and false reassurance, promises whispered at night when the machines were the loudest.
And I believed I’d get better....I knew I would.