Chapter [12]: [CARRY COST]
The apartment never quite adjusted to Noah's absence.
Sound behaved differently. The refrigerator seemed louder. Footsteps in the hallway lingered longer. Ethan found himself listening for movements that never came, the way you sometimes reached for a phone that wasn't in your pocket anymore.
Carry cost, he thought. Empty space wasn't free.
He took on more hours at the copy shop without being asked. Carl didn't comment, just nodded with tired gratitude. The work was monotonous, but it paid in something Ethan valued more than money right now—predictability.
Bitcoin drifted again, upward this time. A little more than before. Enough that people started posting screenshots. Enough that the tone shifted from interesting to inevitable.
Ethan muted several threads.
He met Maya less frequently, but more deliberately. Short walks. Coffee between classes. Conversations that picked up where they'd left off, no need to impress. She noticed the change in him—the way his attention sharpened when he was tired, the way he went quiet instead of defensive when pressed.
"You carry a lot," she said one afternoon, watching him stir sugar into his coffee without drinking it.
"So do you," he replied.
She shook her head. "Not like that. Yours feels… amortized."
He smiled despite himself. "Everything has a cost over time."
"And what's yours costing you?"
The question lingered between them, unanswered.
That night, Ethan finally deposited a small amount into Mt. Gox.
Not enough to matter. Enough to observe.
The process was clumsy. Manual. Trust layered over trust. He documented each step, timestamped screenshots, cross-checked confirmations. When the balance appeared, he felt no satisfaction—only heightened alertness.
Carry cost increased.
The careful forum user reappeared briefly, posting about withdrawal delays. Nothing alarming. Just friction.
Ethan bookmarked the post.
At work, Trevor returned, sheepish and unfocused. Carl pulled Ethan aside afterward.
"If things don't improve," Carl said quietly, "I might have to let someone go."
Ethan understood the implication immediately.
"I get it," he said. "Just let me know."
That evening, he updated his exit paths again, adding contingencies he'd hoped to avoid. Second job. Freelance print work. Temporary sacrifice for long-term positioning.
He felt tired—not physically, but cognitively. The kind of fatigue that came from constant optionality, from never letting a decision fully settle.
Before bed, Maya texted him.
Do you ever feel like you're paying interest on your own caution?
He stared at the message for a long time.
Yes, he finally replied. But the principal is still intact.
She didn't respond right away.
When she did, it was simple.
Just don't forget to live off some of it.
Ethan set the phone down and lay back, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.
Carry cost wasn't just financial.
It was emotional. Cognitive. Relational.
And like all costs deferred, it didn't disappear.
It compounded.