Iwanthim.
But I also want clarity.And a goddamn plan. And maybe a brain transplant because who the hell sleeps with their ex-roommate in an elevator and then just goes back to sending dumb gifs like nothing happened?
Oh right. Me.
I sigh. Thumb hovering over the keyboard.
And then?—
My stomach turns like I’m on an amusement park tilt-a-whirl hard.
I bolt upright, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth as the room sways, and for a second, I honestly think I’m about to pass out. Dizzy. So dizzy…
I scramble off the bed and make a beeline for the bathroom, barely making it in time before I’m heaving over the toilet.
Okay. Cool. Great.
I’m just... sick. A stomach bug. Something bad I ate. Maybe the emotional whiplash of pretending I’m chill about Turner for seven whole days finally broke me.
Or—maybe—I’m dying.
That’s totally plausible, too.
I sit down on the floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled up. My heart’s still racing, and my mouth tastes like regret. My phone buzzes from the bedroom where I left it, but I can’t make myself move.
Not yet.
“Ugh! You do not have time to be sick,” I complain, reaching up for a washcloth and pressing it against my forehead.
I sit there for another few minutes, panting like I just ran a marathon in flip-flops, the cold cloth dripping down my temple and making me shiver. My body feels like warm trash.
Total garbage.
After what feels like an eternity, I manage to drag myself up. My legs are noodles. My insides? Betraying me. I clutch the sink, splash water on my face, and glare at my reflection like this is somehowherfault.
"You dramatic little bitch," I mutter.
I shuffle out of the bathroom, flop face-first into my bed, and groan into the comforter. The phone buzzes again somewhere near my elbow.
I groan again.
Should probably tell Nova I’m dying—she would want to know. Or text my parents or something, just in case.
With an epic groan, I blindly slap around for my cell and drag it under the covers like I’m trying to smuggle state secrets. My eyes barely open, fingers fumbling as I scroll through contacts and tap on Nova’s name.
Me: Update: I’m dying. This is the end. Feel like total shit, just threw up.
Three seconds later:
Nova: YOU POOR THING!!! I’ve heard the flu is going around but what kind of dying are we talking about here? Food poisoning? Covid?
Me: ALL THE ABOVE. I can barely type this but also, don’t even think of stopping by unless you’re bringing soup and saltine crackers.
Nova: Bold of you to make demands on me from your deathbed.
Me: I’m not above HAUNTING you if you bring off-brand.
Nova: There’s no way you’re that sick if you’re threatening me.
