Chapter 66 We crave emotional attention
The sound of the IV drip and the quiet hum of the machines fill the sterile room. I focus on Kristina’s hands as they work, each motion practiced and effortless. The needle slides into Ryan’s arm, and I watch it like it’s something I can control, something I can stop from hurting him. She’s kind, patient, explaining what to expect with a tone so smooth it could almost be mistaken for soothing. But no amount of soft words can ease the reality of it.
How many times has she done this? How many arms has she placed this needle in? How many patients has she walked through this first step, said these same comforting words? I can see it now, the repetition, the sameness of it all. The way this small procedure, this first dose, is just another part of the routine. And yet, for Ryan, it's the beginning of something unpredictable.
I wonder how many people have sat in that chair before him. How many have come and gone, their stories stacking up in the clutter of a hospital wing. And if someone handed me a report, a list with all the names and outcomes, a simple line marked ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’, which side would win? Would it be the ones who walked away, or the ones whose names are now just numbers, tucked away in some drawer...forgotten?
Ryan’s gaze pulls me from my thoughts. I raise my eyes and meet his, and for a moment, the entire world shrinks down to just us. His smile is small, but it’s enough. I return it, feeling a flicker of something. I should be in the office. But when my assistant, Jenny, called to ask if I'd be going in today, I told her no. And to just say I had a business appointment if anyone asks.
Because there’s no version of this where I let Ryan go through this alone.
I open my laptop and the screen feels offensively bright. I reply to three emails in a row, I start drafting another response about projected timelines and anticipated deliverables, then stop halfway through a sentence.
My fingers hover over the keys, I turn.
Ryan is lying back against the reclined hospital chair, eyes closed, head tilted slightly to the side. His breathing is steady, but there’s a faint tightness around his mouth. He looks peaceful....he isn’t.
“Are you planning on telling your parents?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t open his eyes right away. A few seconds pass, then a few more. Eventually, his lids lift. He blinks once, like he’s returning from somewhere distant, and turns his head toward me.
“Eventually,” he says.
The word hangs there...elastic and undefined. I hold his gaze. “If I wasn’t here,” I ask carefully, “would you have told them?”
His throat shifts when he swallows, his eyes drop.
“They’ll worry,” he says.
It’s not defensive or dismissive. Just factual. I nod. “They will.”
That’s what parents do, well....most parents.
“It’s expected,” I add quietly but he doesn’t look up.
“You’re doing the same thing you did when you were sixteen.” That gets his attention. His eyes flick back to mine and his jaw tightens slightly. “If it hurt them then,” I add gently, “it’ll hurt them now.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I just need some time,” he says finally.
His voice is softer now, a little tired. I study him. Ryan carries himself like a self-contained system and it terrifies me. Because I’m the same way.
I know what it looks like from the outside....composed, capable, untouchable. I also know what it feels like from the inside. It doesn’t feel strong. It feels like swallowing everything until it starts swallowing you back.
“You have a dangerously romanticized idea of independence,” I tell him quietly. “You don’t have to protect everyone from your pain.”
He exhales faintly. His eyes soften, but he doesn’t argue. He just watches me for a long moment. And I realize something unsettling, he would have done this alone. He would have sat in this chair without telling them. Without telling anyone. Gone through all this while maintaining the illusion of normalcy.
I watch him fidget slightly on the couch, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against his knee. “Can I share something disturbing?” he asks, careful, almost testing the waters.
I arch a brow, leaning back lazily. “Of course. Please, disturb me.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “When I was a lot younger.... and I felt ignored, wronged or hurt by my parents, my favorite way to make myself feel better...” He hesitates, then exhales. “I’d imagine myself getting hurt. In all sorts of ways. Falling down the stairs. Getting hit by a truck. Randomly kidnapped, murdered, you name it. And then I’d think about how it would affect them. Or classmates who barely even knew me. How devastated they’d be. How much they’d suddenly realize I mattered. And I’d feel better, in a twisted way. Satisfaction, even.”
I chuckle, dark and quiet. “Well, I can see why that counts as disturbing.” I pause, letting a sly grin curl the edge of my lips. “Can I share something disturbing too?”
He nods, curious now.
I tilt my head, voice dropping just a little. “That’s actually a very common human experience. We crave emotional attention. When we feel invisible, ignored.... our minds start spinning scenarios where we control the feelings of others. Where we’re not powerless.”
He frowns slightly, mulling that over. “Was it the same for you?”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not exactly.” my eyes narrow thoughtfully. “In my case, I used to imagine failing. Failing at things I wasn’t supposed to fail at. Just to see what would happen. How my father would react, if he’d raise his voice, say or do something cruel. At least then I’d have a valid, obvious reason to lash back.”
Ryan tilts his head, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Did you ever consider actually failing on purpose?”
I glance at him, teasing. “Did you ever consider actually throwing yourself down the stairs?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No.”
“Exactly,” I say, almost whispering the word, a ghost of a smirk on my lips. “The thrill was always in the fantasy. The imagining. Because deep down, we both know we’d hate it if it actually happened.”
He nods slowly, eyes tracing the IV drip. “Yeah, the reality of it is quite devastating.”
We fall quiet again, and I watch him as he focuses on the empty space in front of him. Then the faintest curve of that rare smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Are we still doing the lists of experiences?” he asks casually.
“Of course,” I say, letting him see the small lift in my shoulders, the concession. “Though I tried writing one and came up empty.” My eyes flick to his, letting the unspoken hang between us. “But we’ll definitely cross yours off.”
His smile grows, sharper this time, like he knows something I don’t. “There’s a pottery place I’ve always wanted to try,” he says, watching me closely to gauge my reaction. “Seemed fun.”
I blink, genuinely caught off guard.
“Pottery?”
He nods once, that little smirk still in place, and I can feel the pull in my chest. I exhale slowly, shaking my head. “You’re lucky,” I say, letting the words hang, “Normally I'd argue, but saying no to someone with cancer is frowned upon. So you get a free pass.”
He lets out a soft, genuine laugh, the kind that makes the room feel warmer, the kind that somehow refuels something inside me I didn’t realize had been flickering out. Every negative feeling and thought instantly shrinks back.