Page 41 of The Cyrano Situation
Hart hesitated, then stepped back, opening the door wider without saying anything. I entered his apartment, immediately noticing the unusual disarray. Hart was normally fastidious about his living space, but now there were clothes draped over furniture, dishes piled in the sink, and what looked like an empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table.
I turned to face him as he closed the door. "What's going on, Hart? You've been avoiding me since Friday night."
"I haven't been avoiding you," he said, not meeting my eyes. "I told you, I'm sick."
"Bullshit." The word came out sharper than I intended, but my worry had been building for days, and his obvious lie only heightened my frustration. "Something happened, and I want to know what it is. Did I do something wrong?"
Hart moved past me into the living room, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Not everything is about you, Cyril."
That stung, but I followed him. "I never said it was. But we're friends, and suddenly you're ghosting me. I have a right to know why."
Hart sank onto his couch, the cushions exhaling beneath his weight. His apartment smelled stale—a mixture of unwashed clothes and the faint sourness of old takeout containers. This wasn't the Hart I knew. The real Hart would never let his space deteriorate like this.
I took in the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders curved inward as if he was trying to make himself smaller. Something in me softened. Whatever was happening, pushing him right now wasn't going to help. He was a wreck.
"Okay," I said, gentler this time. "You don't have to tell me. But I'm not leaving you like this."
Hart looked up, surprise flickering across his exhausted face. "What are you talking about?"
Instead of answering, I shrugged off my rain-dampened jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. "When's the last time you showered?"
He blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I don't know. What day is it?"
"Monday," I said, already moving toward his bathroom. "And that tells me everything I need to know."
I flipped on the bathroom light, grimacing at the disarray. There were towels on the floor, the toothpaste was uncapped, the mirror was speckled with water spots. This wasn't just being sick. This was something deeper. I turned the shower on, adjusting the temperature until steam began to rise.
"What are you doing?" Hart appeared in the doorway, arms crossed defensively over his chest.
"Taking care of you, since you clearly aren't taking care of yourself." I gestured to the shower. "Get in. Hot water will help, even if you don't think it will."
For a moment, I thought he might argue, but then his shoulders slumped in surrender. "Fine."
"Clean clothes?" I asked, already backing out of the bathroom.
"Dresser. Second drawer."
I nodded and left him to it, listening for the sound of the shower curtain sliding closed before I moved to his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it showed signs of neglect. His bed was unmade, clothes were strewn across the floor, and the blinds were drawn tight against the gray day outside. I opened the second drawer as instructed, pulling out a soft navy t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that looked more presentable than what he was currently wearing.
While the shower ran, I moved through his apartment, picking up discarded clothes and empty containers. I found a trash bag under the sink and filled it with takeout boxes and crumpled tissues. The dishes in the sink were crusted with food, so I filled the basin with hot water and dish soap, letting them soak. Small acts of order in the chaos, but it was something I could do when I felt so helpless about fixing whatever was really wrong.
In the kitchen, I opened his refrigerator, finding it nearly empty except for condiments, a half-empty carton of milk, and some dubious-looking leftovers. The freezer yielded more options—including, thankfully, a container of what looked like homemade soup. I checked the label: "Chicken & Wild Rice – Mom's Recipe" written in Hart's neat handwriting. Perfect.
By the time the shower shut off, I had the soup heating on the stove, the worst of the mess cleared away, and fresh air circulating through the apartment from a cracked window. Iheard Hart moving from the bathroom to his bedroom, then emerging a few minutes later in the clean clothes I'd left for him.
He paused in the kitchen doorway, taking in the transformation. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the edges the way it always did when wet, but his eyes looked clearer, more present.
"You didn't have to do all this," he said quietly, but there was a note of gratitude beneath the words.
I stirred the soup, the rich aroma filling the kitchen. "I know. But sometimes we all need someone to step in when things get overwhelming."
Hart moved to the small kitchen table, lowering himself into a chair. "The soup smells good."
"Your mom's recipe, apparently." I found a clean bowl in the cabinet and ladled a generous portion. "When was the last time you ate something that wasn't delivered in a paper bag?"
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Thursday, maybe?"
I set the bowl in front of him, along with a spoon and a glass of water. "Eat. Then we'll talk."
