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WHY TAKE CHANCES WHEN I CAN PANIC INSTEAD

I ’m excited to be moving in, but it’s bittersweet. Our time here already has a complication—Timmy had agreed a while ago to help Steve paint his barn over on Solvana, where his house is located. And Steve inconveniently booked his PTO for a few days after our move, and says he can’t change the timing.

So we begin unpacking the essentials, arranging things just enough to make it livable, though it still feels temporary. The walls are bare, the furniture sparse, and the whole apartment feels more like a pit stop than a home. It’s hard to invest fully when, in a few short days, I know we’ll just have to leave everything behind for a bit. I want to nest, to make it feel like home, but we don’t have time.

There’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me that maybe it’s jumping the gun to get the apartment set up properly yet, anyway. Timmy’s been quite volatile lately. But I know he’s just stressed about the move. God knows I am, too. What if this place is just another temporary mirage of stability—we’ve only been together a few months, but how many ‘reset moments’ have we had already? What if I’m just wasting money investing in something that he’ll find a way to ruin ?

It’s exhausting trying to stay positive. The weight of all the upheaval—moving out of my original apartment, crashing at Matty’s and all that entailed, and now setting up this new space—is taking its toll.

I tell myself that being here is better than Matty’s chaos, though resentment still simmers beneath the surface. It’s hard not to think about what I gave up—my original apartment, with all its promise of peace and space for writing. But I know that’s something I just need to get over, and that’s a chapter I have to close. If I keep carrying that resentment, Timmy and I will never work. I know that much.

It’s frustrating not being able to talk about any of this with anyone. I want to vent, to cry on a friend’s shoulder, but I feel, in a weird way, like I have to protect Timmy’s reputation. It feels wrong to expose all the messy details, even though they’re eating me alive. He’s not just some villain—he’s the person I chose to stand by. So, instead, I carry it all inside, waiting for the moment we get back from Steve’s to start therapy.

Then, as if the moving stress isn’t enough, Timmy starts obsessing over the air conditioner. It becomes an entire thing that he can’t stop talking about. “This air is making me sick,” he insists, pacing the room, his hands rubbing his chest. “I swear, it’s blowing some weird chemical or powder. My chest feels so tight. Like I’m going to have a heart attack.”

At first, I try to reason with him. “It’s just a dusty filter. We’ll clean it. It’s probably all it is.”

But he shakes his head. “No, this isn’t just dust. There’s something wrong with the air. I can feel it. Like it’s poisoning me. This is an older building, and there might be asbestos or lead paint or something.”

I glance at the bed, noticing a faint residue on the sheets. It’s barely there, but enough to make me wonder. The The air conditioning unit could definitely use a cleaning, but Timmy’s insistence that it’s some kind of silent killer feels over the top. Still, the way he talks about his symptoms—how his chest aches, how he can’t breathe properly—it starts to creep into my own mind. I find myself waking up with a tightness in my chest, questioning if I’m feeling something real or if I’m just absorbing his anxiety.

The next day, the air conditioning paranoia morphs into the perfect excuse.

“I don’t think I can go to Steve’s,” Timmy says, sounding half-apologetic. “My chest feels fucked. If I go, I’ll just be in agony the whole time. It’s probably safer if we stay here and figure out the air conditioning situation first.”

I sigh, torn between relief and guilt. I don’t want to go either, but the trip is booked.

“Timmy, we kind of have to go.” I’m surprised to hear myself say it, but Timmy’s been adamant that he needs to be there for his friend, so I try to support him to do what he’s been saying is the right thing, despite my own objections. “Steve’s counting on you, and we need the money. You know how tight things are.”

“I know,” he groans, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “I’m just saying… I have a really bad feeling about this trip.”

His words send a chill down my spine, stirring up my own doubts. I’ve felt uneasy about this trip from the beginning, and now it feels like Timmy’s bad vibe is rubbing off on me. But backing out hasn’t been an option until now, according to Timmy, despite me asking several times, so I try to take the higher road rather than putting my own selfish wants first.

Steve calls while we’re mulling it over, and Timmy answers with a pained voice, like he’s on the verge of collapse. “Hey man, I’m not doing so good. My chest is acting up, and I think it’s the air conditioner in our apartment. I really don’t know if I can make it.”

On the other end, Steve’s voice is calm but firm. “Look, Timmy. I need you, man. I’m counting on you to be here. The air over here is fresh, way better than whatever’s going on with that air conditioning unit. You’ll feel better the second you get here. Trust me.”

Timmy looks at me, torn between guilt and self-pity. I see the wheels turning in his mind—he’s balancing his discomfort with his loyalty to Steve. He groans again, rubbing his chest like the weight of the decision is too much to bear.

“I don’t know, man,” Timmy says. “I really don’t.”

“Come on, Timmy,” Steve urges. “We’ve already booked and paid for the flights. I need you, and I’ll cover your expenses while you’re here, I promise. And I’ll pay you well, like we’ve discussed.”

Timmy hangs up the phone with a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing. “We’ll go, but like I said, I have a really bad feeling about this trip.”

The words settle like a fog over the room, thick with the weight of unspoken fears.

I shift uncomfortably. “Well, you said it yourself—if we stay here, we’re just going to spiral. We need the money Steve’s offering. And the fresh air will do us good.”

He looks at me, conflicted, before finally nodding. “You’re right. We’ll go. But the moment we get back, we’re figuring out what’s wrong with this apartment. I swear, I’m not living here if the air conditioning is blowing asbestos or something.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. His fixation on the air conditioner seems irrational, but there’s something in the way he clings to it that unsettles me. It’s like a manifestation of something deeper—his fear of losing control, of spiraling back into chaos. Like he can’t just stay still, that he always has to find the next drama.

“Okay,” I whisper. “We’ll figure it out when we get back. One thing at a time.”

Later that evening, I lie in bed, listening to the hum of the air conditioner. My mind churns with thoughts I can’t quite pin down. What if this trip is a mistake? What if the air conditioner is actually blowing in something dangerous, and we’re slowly poisoning ourselves? What if this move, this relationship, this life I’m trying to build here, is all doomed to fall apart?

Beside me, Timmy’s breath rises and falls in the rhythm of sleep. For now, he’s calm. Peaceful, even. I reach out and trace the outline of one of his tattoos, feeling a strange mixture of love and fear. We’re in this together, for better or worse. And maybe, just maybe, getting out of town for a bit will help us reset.

But the doubt gnaws at me, refusing to let go.

I close my eyes, whispering a silent prayer that the trip to Steve’s will be uneventful, that the apartment isn’t filled with invisible poisons, and that Timmy and I will figure out how to make this work. Because I’m in too deep now.