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You’re the sickly patient yet Jean is the one panicking and freaking out. Your childhood friend had called you a while ago after she heard that you hadn’t gone to any of your lectures today. She asked about your whereabouts and whether you were alright or needed anything.
“I’m all good,” you try to mask your hoarse voice but nothing gets past the Criminology and Psychology major. “I’m not dying or anything.”
“Are you absolutely positive?” The last two words are embedded with doubt and you just know she’s trying her hardest not to succumb to her caregiving instincts. You sigh.
“Yeah.” You hang up saying you’ll be alright on your own, that she doesn’t have to be troubled but a part of you regrets your words. Maybe it would’ve been good to receive help in a state such as your own. However, there’s nothing you can do about it now and you’d feel pretty mean if you made Jean come over when she must have other things on her plate.
An hour passes and you get up groggily to eat something. As you’re scouring the kitchen for food, you come to a realisation.
Shit, there’s nothing to eat. You groan, irritated. I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday. How could I forget?
There’s no chance of you doing any errands today so instead, you pour yourself a glass of water and jump into bed, burying yourself in pillows.
Not even a moment later, someone barges into your room without knocking. You know who it is before they say anything (that certain someone also happens to have a copy of your keys as you do hers).
“Jean!” you chastise. “What are you doing?” Your throat is sore and it hurts to talk so you end up in a fit of coughs.
“See, you aren’t fine at all,” she tuts. “You have to tell me if you’re unwell or else I’ll never know.”
You exhale and pout. “It seems like you knew this time though.” You lift yourself up to a sitting position to emphasise your point but when you do, your head suddenly starts to spin. Your friend notices and hurries to your side to keep you upright.
“Are you okay?” she whispers tenderly. You shake your head but the movement makes you more light-headed. Exhausted, you press your forehead into the crook of Jean’s neck.
“You’re nice and cold,” you murmur.
The physical contact relieves your growing body temperature but the chill is lost when Jean backs away and places a hand to your neck and then moving to your head.
“We need to take your temperature—you’re boiling.” Jean takes her hand off your forehead and for a second, you miss her touch.
“I don’t have a thermometer though,” you admit.
“You… don’t have a thermometer?” Jean asks, shocked.
“I just never thought it was necessary,” you reply with a shrug. She stares at you in disbelief then shakes her head.
“You should’ve told me.” She tucks you into bed with an ice bag on top of your head. Seeing her face up close, you notice the creases engraved between her eyebrows and the way she chews on the inside of her left cheek as a result of her worry. Jean holds your gaze briefly and you observe her pupils dilate. The intimacy makes you both feel self-conscious and you part your lips to breathe in some much needed air.
She allows a small smile to form and says she’ll pop out for a quick trip to the pharmacy but before she sets off, she makes sure to quickly add, “Stay here and don’t move.” You giggle softly. As if you had any energy left to move.
For some reason, the statement plagues you and you pull up your blanket to hide a section of your face. Stop making me feel special, Jean.
After she returns with bags of food—yes, she noticed your empty fridge—and medicine in her arms, Jean catches your sleeping form. She places the bags quietly on the floor and sits next to you. You begin to stir when you sense the mattress dip and a person’s fingers brushing the hair away from your face.
“Hello again,” you yawn and remember what Jean said before she departed. “What would you have done if I’d got up and left?”
“I have the thermometer,” Jean waves the packaged product in her hand. “…And to answer your question, I probably would’ve found you and put you in solitary confinement,” Jean chuckles.
"Hey! I’m not Klee!” She shrugs in reply.
“I’ll be in the kitchen making some soup for you,” the Psych major points to your abdomen. “I heard your stomach rumbling in your sleep.”
“Wait, really?!”