Chapter 67 The version I get
RYAN'S POV
I’d braced for worse.
The first time I was diagnosed, the chemo had flattened me. Drained me until I was more absence than person. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t gather the strength to walk from my bed to the bathroom without feeling like I’d climbed something vertical and endless. My body had felt hijacked. My mind had followed.
So I assumed this would be the same.
I was prepared for devastation. But I’m surprised to realize it isn’t...not exactly.
I’m tired. God, I’m tired. But I’ve been tired for weeks now, ever since the word recurrence entered the room and refused to leave. This fatigue feels heavier, yes, but not catastrophic. I tell myself I can power through it if I set my mind to it. I’ve always been good at overriding my body.
My appetite is nearly gone. Food tastes distant. Metallic and optional. Still, we sit together at the table most evenings, and Michael watches me with that quiet, hawk-like focus of his.
“One more bite,” he always says.
And then, “Just one more.”
I do it for him sometimes. Not out of obligation. Not exactly. But because I see what it does to him when I try. The relief, the small victory.
So I swallow....And swallow again. Until nausea creeps up, patient and inevitable, and I have to stop before my body stages a rebellion. I am not nearly as okay as I was two weeks ago.
That’s the strangest part. Two weeks ago, cancer was mostly a word. A diagnosis. A clinical entry in a file. It existed in conversation, in future tense, in statistics. Now it exists in my bloodstream. In the way standing up too fast always makes the room tilt slightly. It’s absurd how quickly a body can move from the idea of illness to the lived experience of it. As if the line between those states was only ever imaginary.
It's Sunday, and we’re in my kitchen now. Third infusion done. The apartment smells faintly of broth and something herbal. I’m seated at the table, my head resting on my folded arms.
I’m fighting sleep. Not because I don’t want it. But because giving in feels like surrendering something I can’t name.
I haven’t eaten all day. I don’t even want to think about it. The idea of food feels conceptual. The effort of chewing, impossible. So Michael has taken it upon himself to make soup.
I watch him rewind the YouTube tutorial for the third time. The woman in the video is calmly explaining something about simmering versus boiling, and Michael pauses it mid-sentence.
He leans closer to the counter. Rewinds again. Watches with unsettling intensity. Then mirrors what's explained, jaw set, shoulders squared. I press my lips together to contain the laugh rising in my chest. He looks completely invested. There’s a crease between his brows. A look of pure, almost aggressive focus on his face.
And in moments like this, something fragile opens inside me. I wonder what this would look like if there were no cancer. If he wasn’t stretched thin between hospital chairs and the office. If he wasn’t questioning the architecture of his entire life every other moment.
What if he were just here.
In my kitchen.
Chopping vegetables because he likes me. And I was just here, watching him, because I like him too. Would I feel lighter? Would this moment sparkle differently, if it weren’t edged with IV drips and lab results and uncertainty?
Or is this it?
The thing about being human is we are rarely satisfied with what is. We hold it up against what could have been, what should have been, what it might look like in a more ideal version of our lives. We edit our own joy. Compare it to hypothetical upgrades. We are experts at finding the smudge on the glass, even when the view is breathtaking.
I’ve done it my whole life....I won’t do it now. I won’t become a victim of the Arrival Fallacy, that myth that happiness exists somewhere else. After the diagnosis is gone. After the stress is resolved. After everything aligns perfectly.
This is the happiest I am. Not because everything is good, but because he's here. In my kitchen. Arguing with a tutorial about soup like it’s a matter of pride. Despite everything that’s happening. Despite everything that might.
I push myself upright. The movement alone feels demanding, like gravity has quietly increased while I wasn’t paying attention. My arms protest, my head swims faintly.
I ignore it and reach for my phone on the table. The small act of lifting it feels like a negotiation with my own muscles, but I angle the camera toward him anyway. Through the screen, he looks different.
I zoom in slightly as he chops vegetables with surgical seriousness, lips pressed thin. I capture one picture. Then another. He shifts, sensing something, and looks up.
For a second, I see him through the camera.... suspicious eyes narrowing, illuminated by the soft kitchen light. I take another photo before lowering the phone.
He points at me with the knife.
“No unauthorized publishing. I have a reputation to maintain,” he says dryly. “I don’t need anyone knowing I consulted a woman named Linda for soup guidance.”
My mouth twitches.
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” I tell him, and I mean it. Not because I believe in his culinary instincts.... I absolutely do not, but because he’s giving it the kind of attention most people only reserve for things that truly matter.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says. “I have 911 on standby. Purely as a precaution.” He turns back to the stove, gives the pot one final, solemn stir, and a few moments later, ladles the soup into a bowl.
He brings it to me like an offering and I take it carefully. The steam curls upward. It smells warm. Gentle. Intentional. I appreciate the effort more than I can articulate. And I hate...quietly and privately, that my body's not eager to try it.
But I’ve already decided, I won’t measure this moment against some alternate, healthier version of myself. I won’t sit here imagining how it would taste if my body weren’t preoccupied with cellular warfare.
This is the version I get.
“Are you not having any?” I ask.
Michael scoffs, folding his arms. “One of us has to confirm it’s safe for human consumption.”
“How noble of you.”
“I’m nothing if not selfless.”
I lift the spoon. The movement feels heavier than it should. I blow on it gently, watching the surface ripple. Then I take a cautious sip. Like most things lately, the taste is.... distant.
Muted.
Blunted at the edges. Which, honestly, I consider a mercy. If it's terrible, I can't tell. I nod thoughtfully, schooling my face into something evaluative.
“Good job,” I say, offering him a small smile. “You get five stars.”
He stares at me, studies me for a second longer, then shakes his head. “You must really be into me, seeing as your standards have been extremely lowered. Your objectivity is clearly compromised.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you accusing me of fraud?”
“You’re hopelessly biased,” he continues, gesturing vaguely toward me. “I’ve achieved culinary excellence through emotional manipulation.”
I huff a quiet laugh and take another spoonful anyway. And watch him pretend not to look relieved.