Kenan has the mildest cold in the history of viruses. But according to him? He’s on the brink of death. According to you? He’s being a spoiled baby. According to your heart? He’s never been cuter.

⸻

You get the text.

Kenan: “babee I’m dyingg 😩😩 my head hurts and my bones are dissolving.”

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly fall out. But 10 minutes later you’re at his door with a bag of tissues, a lemon tea, and a strong sense of responsibility (and weakness for his puppy eyes).

You walk in.

He’s fully cocooned in a hoodie, blanket over his head, tissues everywhere.

You: “You look like a moldy burrito.”

Kenan [in a tiny voice]: “I have the plague.”

⸻

You sit next to him on the bed, handing him tea.

He looks up like you just saved his soul.

Kenan: “Can you feed me? I don’t have energy in my hands.”

You: “You benched 100 kilos 3 days ago.”

Kenan: “That man is dead. I’m fragile now.”

He opens his mouth like a baby bird. You roll your eyes. But yeah… you feed him. Because you’re soft. And he knows it.