Feeling better changed Gary in subtle ways.

At first, it was harmless. He woke up without the familiar jolt of pain. He chewed cautiously, then a little less cautiously. He caught himself smiling for no particular reason. The antibiotics were working. The swelling was down. The crisis, he decided, was basically over.

This was where Gary usually got into trouble.

He stood in his kitchen, coffee in hand, turning the last tablet over between his fingers. Part of him knew the sensible thing was to take it immediately. Another part — louder, more persuasive — suggested he’d earned a bit of flexibility by now.

“You’re basically healed,” he told himself. “You can feel it.”

The voice sounded convincing because it wanted to be believed.

Later that day, he caught himself planning again. Not medical plans. Social ones. Pub plans. Food plans. Normal-life plans that didn’t include checking every bite or pacing himself carefully. The return of possibility made him restless.

He messaged a mate about meeting up. Nothing wild. Just a pint or two. He even added taking it easy at the end, which he took as proof of responsibility.

The ache flickered faintly when he laughed too hard at a stupid video, but it faded quickly. That, too, felt like permission.

Gary stood at a familiar crossroads. Celebrate early and treat recovery like a victory lap. Or slow himself down and remember that feeling better didn’t mean being finished.

He knew which one sounded more fun.

Celebrate early with food, drink, and bravado → Page 77

Push intimacy too fast because you feel “normal” again → Page 78