Chapter 3: Diagnosis and Desperation

Caleb was an amazing cook.

Even when he was bone-tired, he never served up anything less than comfort. The smell of baked cheese and pasta filled the apartment, making the place feel almost like home.

He set a plate of mac and cheese in front of me and said,

“I have to go on a business trip tomorrow. I’ve Venmo’d you a couple hundred bucks. You can order takeout for the next couple of days.”

His voice was steady, practical. The kind of voice you trusted when the car broke down or the bills piled up. He set the cash on the counter, his fingers brushing mine for a second longer than necessary.

Normally, I’d complain that a couple hundred wasn’t enough, then nitpick everything else.

It was almost muscle memory—my tongue nearly tripped over the old script. Instead, I took a breath and tried to picture the kind of woman the system wanted me to be.

But now, I was supposed to be the unforgettable first love the male lead would always remember.

I picked up some food with my fork and put it on Caleb’s plate, giving him what I hoped was a sweet smile.

The gesture felt awkward, but I forced myself to hold it. “Here, try some,” I said, my voice softer than usual, wishing I could make the moment linger just a little longer.

“Caleb, don’t worry about me. I’m more concerned about you—working so late every day, can your body handle it?”

I watched the lines of exhaustion on his face, the way his hands trembled slightly as he reached for the fork. I wanted to erase them all, just for tonight.

“Stop delivering food after work. I’ll find a job tomorrow and help out, too.”

Caleb set the plate down with a tired sigh, lips pressed tight, and didn’t answer.

He studied me as if I were a puzzle missing half its pieces. His eyes flicked from the food to my face, searching for the trick.

After dinner, I took the initiative to clean up the dishes.

I turned on the old portable radio, humming along to a top 40 hit as I washed plates and pans. The warm water and simple routine grounded me, making the apartment feel cozier for a few moments. The sharp tang of cheddar and the crunch of burnt breadcrumbs made it feel like a real Midwest comfort meal.

When I came out of the kitchen, Caleb had already showered. Water droplets clung to his neat short hair, and his handsome features looked even fresher after his bath.

He wore a faded OSU t-shirt and basketball shorts, his skin still pink from the hot water. For a second, I remembered our early days—movie nights, popcorn, the feel of his hand in mine.

Only the slap marks on his face hadn’t faded yet.

They stood out, angry and red, a reminder of all the things I’d done wrong. Guilt twisted in my chest.

I took some ice cubes from the freezer, wrapped them in a ziplock bag, and sat beside Caleb.

I pressed the cool bundle into his palm, hoping he’d take it as a peace offering.

“Put this on.”

Caleb reached out, but instead of taking the ice pack, he touched my forehead directly.

His hand was warm, fingers gentle, lingering for just a moment as he searched my face for answers.

“Megan, what’s up with you?”

I slapped his hand away, a little annoyed. “What, you can’t handle me being nice to you?”

My tone was sharp, but there was a hint of vulnerability underneath. The couch cushion dipped between us, and I wished I could close the distance.

A flash of self-mockery passed through Caleb’s eyes.

He turned away, the corners of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Early the next morning, I got up to pack his suitcase.

I folded his favorite checkered shirt and tucked a granola bar in the side pocket, just like he used to do for me before finals. The light from the window made the room look softer, almost hopeful.

Caleb stared for a few seconds when he saw me in a blazer and skirt.

He blinked in surprise, one eyebrow raised. It was the first time in ages I’d worn anything but sweatpants around the apartment.

“You’re really going job hunting?”

I nodded. “I sent out a few applications last night. Two companies called me for interviews.”

I flashed my phone screen at him as proof, biting my lip nervously.

Before leaving, Caleb reminded me, “If you get the job, take it. If not, it’s fine. I can still support you.”

He lingered in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, his expression caught somewhere between pride and worry. I squeezed his hand before he left, trying to tell him in that moment that I was finally trying.