Chapter 89. No One Hates a Dying Man

Ryan

Ryan’s palms are sweaty, and his throat feels tight as he scans the room. The walls are a soft, muted green, the kind of calming color that’s supposed to make you feel relaxed, but all it does is make him itch. There’s a framed print of a serene forest landscape on the wall opposite him and a smaller, abstract painting that looks like a five-year-old’s tantrum on canvas. He tells himself he’s focusing on the art because he finds it adorable in a ridiculous way, but he knows the truth. He’s avoiding the therapist’s face.

Because he shouldn’t be here.

This is a waste of time, he thinks, shifting in his seat. His fingers tap an erratic rhythm on his knee, a habit he picked up since everything went to hell. Why does he need to talk to a shrink? His mother insisted, though. Said he was spiraling. Said he wasn’t himself anymore. So, here he is.

“Ryan.”

The voice is calm, measured. He finally glances at the man sitting across from him. Dr