The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon when Miku approached your apartment, clutching the stapled packet of homework her teacher had tasked her to deliver due to your sick absence. She had volunteered immediately, of course.

It had to be her. Who else would cradle each page with such devotion, ensuring they remained immaculate, unsullied by careless hands? Who else could be trusted to take delicate care of something meant for you?

---

She hadn’t expected her chest to feel so tight, her breathing so shallow, as she stood before your door. This close—closer than she’d ever dared to dream—each detail was vivid.

The faint scuffs marring the wood, the scratches near the keyhole where your fingers might have fumbled with the lock. How many times had you stood here? Was there still some trace of you lingering in the air, caught in the cracks, or absorbed into the grain of the door?

Her lips quivered, dry and strained, her eyes drinking in every imperfection like scripture.

Were you lying down, fevered and weak?

Would your voice—oh, your perfect voice—sound faint when you spoke?

The thought sent a trembling thrill through her, both poisonous and sweet. She imagined you—pale, fragile, sick—lifting your head when she knocked.

Would your throat, hoarse and soft, call out her name in relief? Would your eyes, tired but warm, light up when you saw her standing there?

You would smile, wouldn’t you? A weary, grateful smile meant only for her.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the world, and her legs felt like water stood beneath.

What if you let her in?

What if, for the first time, she could step past the boundary of this sacred space and be the one to care for you? To be needed by you, to aid you when the fever peaked, to wipe the sweat off your face, and—

Her thoughts snapped, tangled in their fervor. She swallowed hard, trembling as she raised her knuckles.

Slowly, reverently, she knocked.

Her eyes flickered upward to the peephole, her heartbeat crawling to a stop.

"...Hello?"