“You’re not allowed.”
“I’ve reviewed the medication instructions so many times that I know the printer’s serial number.”
“That isn’t nervous. That’s disturbed.”
“I’m frightened I’ll miss something.”
“Like what?”
“A change in your speech. A seizure. A fever. A fall.”
“You’ll call someone.”
“Yes.”
“And they’ll tell you what to do.”
“Yes.”
“So stop making that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’ve already imagined twelve funerals.”
I looked away.
Noah’s hand closed around the cup.
“Sorry.”
“You’re not wrong.”
He studied me.
“What are you most afraid of?”
The true answer had nothing to do with medication.
I moved the duffel from the floor to the chair.
“That you’ll arrive and know immediately that you don’t want to live there.”
Noah was quiet.
“I said I wanted to try.”
“I know.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I do.”
“Then what?”
“I’m learning not to treat good moments as guarantees.”
His gaze softened.
