Chapter 96 Joy is fragile
MICHAEL'S POV
Bainbridge Island is about thirty-five minutes by ferry from Seattle, but it feels like stepping into an entirely different world.
When the ferry docks, the atmosphere shifts almost immediately. The noise of the city fades, the restless edge of it all dissolving into something quieter, softer. The air itself seems slower here, less burdened by urgency.
And as if the day has decided to show us a small kindness, the weather begins to change.
The clouds that followed us across the Sound start to thin, breaking apart in uneven patches. Pale streaks of blue push through first, hesitant, like they’re testing the sky before committing to it. Then the light follows, warm and tentative, hinting that the sun might actually make an appearance.
Ryan’s hand's in mine.
Not because he needs the support, though I’d give it without hesitation if he did, but simply because I like holding it. His fingers slot into mine with an ease that feels almost intentional, like the universe designed the exact geometry of it and then forgot to mention why.
Bainbridge is known for its cafés and bookstores and little art galleries tucked between quiet streets. I’ve been here before. At least, I’m fairly certain I have.
But as we step off the ferry and walk toward the small harbor town, I realize I can hardly remember what I did the last time. I can’t recall what I saw, or what I thought of it.
Actually, I can hardly recall much of my life before Ryan. And strangely enough, that feels like a good thing. It’s like someone cleared the fog from an old landscape and replaced it with something sharper, brighter.
I’m drunk on Ryan Ashbrook.
The realization lands in my chest with surprising clarity. Drunk in the best possible way....dizzy with the presence of him, with the quiet gravity of the connection that formed between us almost without permission.
I turn my head.
Ryan's looking around the harbor with a small, genuine smile on his face. And it’s so bright. So open and real. For a moment it nearly brings tears to my eyes.
Because just yesterday he was crying. And it broke something in me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. In a way that honestly shocked me. I’ve never cared about anyone like this before. Never felt so deeply tethered to another person that watching them hurt felt like someone driving a stake straight through my chest.
Ryan glances up at me, that same quiet spark still in his expression.
“So,” he says, his voice lighter now, curious. “Where should we go first?”
There’s a kind of joy in his eyes that makes my chest tighten. And suddenly I wish I could bottle it. Capture it the way people press flowers between pages. Store it somewhere safe. Keep it sealed away for the next time the world turns cruel and Ryan’s shoulders sag under the weight of it.
Maybe then, when he’s sad again, I could take it out and hand it back to him.....Here, you looked like this once.
Maybe the memory would erase the pain. But I know that isn’t how life works. Joy is fragile because we know it won’t stay. And maybe that fragility is exactly what makes it beautiful.
“We can just wander,” I say finally. “Make our way through everything slowly.”
He nods easily, satisfied with that answer. We start walking. He’s already pulling out his phone, lifting it to snap pictures of the quiet little streets, the colorful storefronts, the clusters of trees that seem to lean over the sidewalks like they’re curious about the people passing through.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before,” he says, almost to himself. “And it’s not even that far.”
There’s something faintly regretful in the way he says it. Like he’s realizing how many small experiences slipped past him unnoticed. I watch him for a second before smiling.
“Maybe the universe was waiting.”
He glances at me. “For what?”
“For us to meet,” I answer simply. “So we could come here together.”
He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he lowers his phone. “Wow,” he says. “This place is already turning you into a poet.”
Maybe it is. Or maybe I’ve just finally found something worth writing about.
We spot the gallery almost by accident. It sits halfway down the street, its tall windows catching the soft afternoon light. The sign above the door is simple, understated, the kind that doesn’t try too hard to pull you in. Inside, warm lighting spills onto polished wooden floors, and even from the doorway I can see the quiet shapes of sculptures, canvases hung at careful distances, colors layered against white walls.
Ryan slows, his attention caught immediately.
We step inside. The place is cozy in that intentional way small galleries often are, open but intimate, like a living room designed for quiet thought. A few other people move slowly through the space, pausing here and there in front of different pieces.
Art fills the room without overwhelming it. Abstract canvases stretch across one wall. Small bronze sculptures sit on waist-high pedestals. There’s a series of photographs capturing strange little moments....empty stairwells, reflections in puddles, the inside of someone’s refrigerator lit in eerie fluorescent light.
I should probably be taking it all in. But instead, I’m watching Ryan.
He moves slowly through the room, his gaze thoughtful, curious. Every now and then he leans in slightly toward a piece, like he’s trying to understand it from the inside out.
And I think about how ready I was this morning to keep him inside the apartment.
I was prepared to watch him sleep, to count his breaths, to keep him safe in the dark. But as I watch him lean in to examine a brushstroke, I feel a surge of pride that nearly chokes me. He chose this. He chose the wind and the light and the exhaustion of being alive.
Ryan is too bright to stay hidden away behind closed doors.
A ship is safe in harbor. But that’s not what ships are for, even if the ocean out there is terrifying.
We drift through the gallery together until Ryan stops in front of a large painting mounted on the far wall. The canvas shows a wide aerial view of farmland, but the fields are divided into strange, geometric shapes that almost look like pieces of a puzzle. Some sections are snow-covered, others muddy and dark, while one patch near the center glows a vivid, unnatural green as if spring arrived there by mistake.
Running through the middle of it all is a narrow dirt road. But the road doesn’t go anywhere. It simply fades into the landscape, dissolving into blank space before reaching the edge of the canvas.
Ryan studies it quietly.
I glance around for a moment. A couple nearby is examining a sculpture. Someone else stands across the room staring at a photograph of a man sleeping on a subway train.
Then I look back at Ryan. “Are you aware,” I say quietly, “that our inner voice isn’t universal?”
He turns his head toward me, slightly distracted. “What?”
“Some people think in words,” I continue. “Like a running narration in their head. Others think in images. Some people process things mostly through abstract emotion. Some people don’t see anything at all.”
Ryan nods slowly.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “I read about that once. Then I got curious and went down a whole unnecessary research spiral.”
That sounds like him.
He gestures lightly toward the painting. “Consciousness varies more than we realize.”
I tilt my head toward the canvas.
"So, what exactly do people who think in images do when they're looking at a painting like this? If their thoughts are already pictures, do they just... see more images? Is it like a mirror reflecting a mirror? Or does the art actually give them a rest from the noise in their head?"
Ryan lets out a soft huff of amusement, still looking at the painting.
“Maybe they see the painting the way the artist did when they made it.”
“And that is?”
He gestures lazily toward the canvas. “Not as a picture,” he says. “As a thought.”
I lean closer before I’ve really decided to. I catch his jaw between my fingers, thumb brushing lightly along the line of it, and tip his face toward me.
Then I kiss him.
Just quick and warm and certain, my mouth pressing against his like the thought arrived before the logic did. When I pull back, I’m still close enough to feel his breath.
“That,” I murmur, “makes absolutely no sense.”
He blinks at me for half a second....Then he laughs.
It spills out of him easily, bright and surprised and a little breathless.....and the sound hits somewhere deep in my chest.
I suddenly wish I could bottle it too.
Trap it in glass the way people preserve lightning bugs in jars when they’re children. Keep it somewhere safe for the next time the sadness creeps in behind his eyes.
Then I’d hand it back to him and say, Here....You used to sound like this.