Gary’s recovery worked, technically.

The tooth responded to treatment again, swelling easing just enough to keep disaster at arm’s length. Pain faded in increments rather than leaps, retreating slowly like a sulk rather than a surrender. From the outside, it probably looked like progress.

Inside, it felt messier.

Gary carried embarrassment like a second coat. People remembered the pub incident. The cancelled plans. The sudden exits and awkward explanations. Nobody mentioned it directly, which somehow made it linger longer. He felt seen in a way he didn’t enjoy.

At the clinic, the tone had changed. Still professional, but firmer now. Less patience for excuses. More emphasis on consequences. Gary listened, nodding, aware that this was the stage where most people either learned properly or repeated the cycle.

He was tired of repeating.

That didn’t mean he suddenly became calm or wise. It meant he was worn down enough to consider alternatives. The chaos had stopped being funny. The lessons had stopped being optional.

Still, the instinct to lean into it hadn’t vanished entirely. Part of him wanted to shrug, laugh it off, and accept that this was just how things went for him. Another part — quieter, newer — suggested that maybe humility was cheaper than pride.

Gary sat in the waiting room, jaw aching dully, watching the door to the treatment rooms open and close. Every person who went through it looked relieved afterward. Less tense. Less defensive.

He realised something then: accepting help didn’t erase embarrassment. It just stopped it multiplying.

From here, Gary could swallow what was left of his pride, accept guidance properly, and try to stabilise things for good. Or he could keep leaning into chaos, convincing himself that learning the hard way was somehow more authentic.

Both paths were open.

Only one led anywhere new.

Accept help humbly and reset your approach → Page 82

Lean into chaos and keep reacting instead of choosing → Page 92