Chapter 60 To be seen like this
The kitchen is colder than the bedroom.
I’m wrapped in the grey sweater my mum gave me a few Christmases ago, the one that’s slightly too big, sleeves grazing my knuckles. Michael is shirtless. Despite the fact that I handed him a shirt. Despite the fact that it’s cold enough for my breath to almost ghost in the air when I exhale near the window.
He claimed he “runs warm.”
He’s seated across from me at the small kitchen table, coffee mug balanced loosely in one hand. In the other, he’s holding one of my books, the copy with the worn spine and marginal notes crowding the edges.
I watch the way his eyes move across the page, how his brow furrows slightly at certain passages. He reads more than I do, I think. And I read a lot.
He turns a page.....I’m still staring. And without looking up, he says, “You’re burning a hole through my skull.”
I blink. He lifts his mug, takes a slow sip, then finally glances up at me over the rim. “I can feel it,” he continues, one corner of his mouth lifting. “The intensity.”
A pause.
“I’m flattered,” he adds lightly. “Most people have to buy me dinner before staring this devotedly.”
I scoff softly, and we fall quiet after that, but it’s comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand words.Then I finally turn back to him and say, almost gently, “People are rarely afraid of failure.”
He stills. The book lowers a fraction. His eyes meet mine properly now....focused and assessing. He doesn’t say a word.
“They’re mostly afraid of being seen trying,” I continue. “Failure is survivable. It’s private, sometimes. You can retreat. Reframe it.”
I wrap both hands around my mug, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. “But trying is exposure. It’s announcing that you care. That you want something enough to risk being witnessed in the pursuit of it.”
“When you try,” I add, holding his gaze, “you give people the opportunity to watch you fall short. Or worse, to watch you want. And ambition is easy to admire when it’s successful, but not so much when it’s in progress.”
His jaw tightens slightly. Not defensively, just thoughtfully. He studies me like I’ve just handed him something sharp. Then he clicks his tongue softly a few times, shaking his head like he’s both amused and exasperated. “And here I thought you were admiring how good I look in the morning light,” he says, voice light but carrying a hint of mock disappointment, “turns out I’m just being analyzed.”
I smile, not missing a beat. “I’m surprisingly good at multitasking.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head, then flips to a new page. But eventually, he glances at me with that half-smirk he always wears when he knows he’s about to catch me off guard. “Do you know what I do for a living?”
I frown, narrowing my eyes at him slightly. “Is that a trick question?”
“Maybe.” He says it lightly, but there’s something in the way he watches me after. Like he’s less interested in the answer and more interested in how I’ll navigate it.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “You’re an editor.”
He nods slowly. “And do you know what that really entails?”
I shrug. “That you edit things? Make them better?”
He closes the book and sets it down, tapping the cover with that precise, impatient rhythm. “You’d think I’d be enjoying this. But years of striving for engineered perfection....it makes me focus on what could’ve been edited better. What should’ve been omitted, or added...”
I watch him, fascinated by how easy it is for him to slip into this rhythm of thought.
“When I first started,” he continues, almost quietly, “I was excited. I got to see the rawest version of a book, the author pouring themselves onto the page, and I guided it all the way to its final form. There was a kind of reward in that. You feel needed. You matter.”
He shakes his head slightly, tapping the table again. “But the more time passes, the faster you pick up the industry’s code for ‘mistakes.’ And after a while, it stops being rewarding. It becomes draining. I’ll strive for perfection in something that shouldn’t have to be perfect.... and in the end, all I have is engineered hypocrisy, polished to a shine I’ll probably never respect.”
I let it hang there, the weight of it pressing softly against me. He looks almost fragile, honest in a way that doesn’t need explanation. I think about how someone like him, who can shape the world of words, still struggles to shape his own.
I nod slowly, taking a moment to meet his gaze. “I don’t think so,” I say softly. “I’m sure whatever you write, it would turn out lovely, despite your doubt.” I press on, my voice gentle but firm. “The bravest thing you’ll ever do is try. If you try and succeed, that’s amazing. If you try and fail, you learn. But if you don’t try....nothing happens. And most people regret the risks they didn’t take more than the ones they did.”
I pause, letting it settle between us. “I speak from experience.”
He smiles, and I can see something soft in his eyes. “Last I checked,” I add, “we made a vow.”
His smile deepens and he gives a deliberate nod. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll stop nurturing another regret.”
He leans back, arms resting loosely, eyes fixed on me like he’s mapping the edges of my face, measuring thoughts, cataloging curiosities. “Then I should probably choose a subject to write about,” he says finally, almost thoughtfully.
I hold his gaze and shake my head, a warning in my eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”
“What? I thought you just said anything I write would turn out lovely. So what’s with the caution?”
He runs a hand through his hair. My breath catches just a little. God.... he looks good. For a moment, I’m yanked back to that first meeting in the elevator, the way I’d been struck, stunned, by his presence. And the thought hits me anew, he’s interested in me. He likes me this much.
“There’s so much source material to work with,” he goes on casually, almost shrugging.
“Source material for what?”
“The book, obviously” he says, eyes glinting.
He leans just slightly forward, a grin tugging at his lips. “I could write about how your brow furrows,” he says quietly, watching me, “just so.... whenever something genuinely catches your curiosity.” A small pause. The sound of the refrigerator fills it. My coffee has gone untouched. “Or how you reread the last line of a page before turning it,” he continues, softer now. “Like you’re reluctant to let it go.” His fingers drum once against the table, absent, thoughtful. “And the watch thing,” he adds, glancing at my wrist. “You adjust it even when it isn’t loose, because it’s not about the fit.”
I still instinctively move to touch it. He notices. He leans back slightly, studying me like I’m something he’s already halfway written.
“And you pretend you don’t need reassurance,” he says, voice lowering, “but you lean closer when you get it.”
There’s the faintest shift in his expression, “Or maybe I'll write about how you always hesitate before saying my name.” He doesn’t elaborate immediately. The air between us tightens, my heart picks up again, then he adds“...like it means something.”
I swallow hard before I can stop myself, unsure of what to say, and when I do speak, what comes out is....“Michael.”
It slips out quieter than I intend. Almost breathless.
He chuckles under his breath and gives a slow, knowing nod. “Yeah,” he says gently. “Just like that. I'm sure I have enough material to make a book worth reading.”
I don’t answer, because suddenly my throat feels tight.
There was a time, not even that long ago, when I’d quietly made peace with the idea that I would never be seen like this. Not fully. Not in the small, unguarded ways that don’t make it into introductions or resumes. I thought at best I’d be understood in fragments. Tolerated. Appreciated for parts.
But this is different. Being noticed like this feels like someone took the time to learn the language of me. And I’m not sure what’s more terrifying...that he sees me this clearly, or that I want him to keep looking.