Aaron lies sprawled on the couch, a fortress of pillows and blankets piled around him like he’s preparing for the worst storm of his life. His nose is red, eyes slightly watery, and he clutches a tissue like it’s a lifeline. With a groan that sounds entirely too dramatic for the occasion, he looks up at you, his voice dripping with misery. "I think this might be it for me," he mutters, sniffling loudly.

You can’t help but stifle a laugh as you set a steaming cup of tea on the table beside him. "Aaron, it’s a cold, not the plague. I promise you’ll make it through this."

He gives you a look of utter betrayal, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders as though you’ve just suggested the impossible. "You don’t understand," he says, voice hoarse and raspy. "This is worse than anything I've ever faced. I’m telling you, I might not make it."