Chapter 45 Fear of failure
I realize that I’ve been so caught up in my own head, so wrapped in the chaos of my illness, that I’ve almost forgotten....no, I’ve let myself forget....that Michael’s going through something too. I lean back a little, my gaze finding his. I never ask him how he's doing, what he's feeling, despite the fact that he always asks me.
"At the park, I asked you what the happier version of yourself would be doing. You told me it doesn’t matter." I say, my voice softer than I intend, the words lingering between us.
"It doesn’t," Michael says quietly, his eyes not meeting mine, but I see the shift in him. A little surrender, maybe.
I shake my head, the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips isn’t happy. "Of course it does," I murmur, my words dripping with something close to disbelief. I click my tongue, a little amused, a little irritated. "You’re a bit of a hypocrite, you know that?"
He looks at me, one eyebrow raised, but his lips don’t move, not yet.
"We agreed we’d sidestep regrets," I continue, my tone becoming sharper, the weight of my illness pressing down on my chest, making everything feel more urgent, more pointed. "But here you are. Drowning in them, letting them take over you entirely when you could just as easily decide not to."
His eyes flicker to me, a little glimmer of defiance in them. I can see he’s trying to push back, but then his expression softens as he lets out a deep breath. "I think I prefer to be the one giving the life-changing advices," he says, the sarcasm light, playful. "Not exactly fond of being on the receiving end."
I can’t help the slight chuckle that escapes me, though the weight of the conversation hasn’t lifted. "You’re not getting out of it," I reply, my voice more sure.
I watch him carefully, the way his fingers tap against his knee as he shifts slightly.
"What are you so scared of?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it, like it’s been there, waiting to be said.
He smiles a little, but it’s thin. "What everyone else is scared of," he says quietly.
“Change?”
“Well, that too, I guess. But mostly it's failure. What if I decide to let go of everything, choose to avoid all the regrets, and end up regretting that choice in the end? What if I end up living in this cycle of impending regrets?"
I exhale, my own frustrations catching in my throat. "You’ve got a tendency to get too philosophical," I mutter, trying to lighten it, even though the undercurrent of truth runs deep. "That’s usually reserved for guys who spend hours staring at their reflections and egomaniacs who spend too much time in cafés pretending to be writers."
He laughs then, the sound lighter than I’ve heard in a while. It’s genuine, a break in the tension. For a moment, I’m almost caught off guard by how good it sounds, like the space around us has been holding its breath and finally exhaled.
"Wow," he says, bending forward slightly, still laughing, and I can tell he’s pretending to be offended. "That really cuts deep, you know? I might be emotionally scarred for life." There’s an undertone of amusement in his tone. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like the first step toward something more comfortable.
I frown slightly, watching him. “What’s so entertaining?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. He looks at me, his smile still lingering on his lips, and then he straightens up, that mischievous spark in his eyes. "Well," he says, stretching his arms out as though he’s about to give a big reveal, "I’ll give you a chance to guess what the happier version of me would rather be doing."
I study him for a beat, taking in the playfulness in his posture, the way his hands rest loosely on his lap. And then, suddenly, it clicks. My eyes widen in realization. "No," I say, already shaking my head.
He nods, still smiling, but there’s a hint of something almost nostalgic behind his amusement. "Yeah," he says, and his voice drops just a little, like he’s sharing some private joke with himself.
I rush to take it back, my hands slightly raised in defense, voice almost frantic. "Wait, no, no," I say quickly, my face flushed from the rapid change in tone. "I didn’t mean it like that. You'd....You'd make a great writer, Michael. Honestly." I pause for a moment, trying to salvage what I can. "You’re halfway there already, you know? With all those thoughts in that head of yours."
He shakes his head with a wry smile, his tone playful but laced with something else. "Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me I should get my head out of my ass and keep helping other people publish their work."
I can't help but be a little earnest now, despite the lightness of the moment. "No," I say, my voice soft but firm, "...you really should go for it. You’d be a great writer. I'm sure you’ve got something people want to read." My gaze holds his for a beat, and I can’t tell if he’s still in the same playful mode or if something else is starting to shift under the surface. For a moment, I think he might brush it off, but he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales slowly and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"I guess," he says, almost to himself, "...maybe you’re right."
But then I watch as his smile begins to fade, and for some reason, the sight tugs at something deep inside me. Without thinking, I reach forward, using the rose to lightly trace the curve of his nose, the flower brushing against his skin. Then I guide it over his cheeks, just grazing his eyes, and then back down again.
He laughs softly, a low sound that escapes his lips as he leans his head out of reach, eyes closing for a moment. “Okay, okay,” he says, lifting his hands to shield himself from the delicate onslaught. “I get it. I’m a walking target.”
“Got to keep you on your toes,” I reply with a small grin, the humor between us feeling like a delicate thread weaving us closer. The silence falls again, I clear my throat and ask, “So, what would you write about?”
He looks at me as if I just threw him a curveball, the question clearly catching him off guard. It’s like I’ve asked him to open some door he’s avoided, or maybe I’m just overthinking it. But for a moment, there’s something almost vulnerable in the way his expression shifts, a flicker that passes before he sighs deeply, and then shifts closer.