When her mam lets me in, she just laughs and says, “Good luck. She’s convinced she’s dying.”

That’s the first warning.

The second is the faint sound of Beyoncé playing from somewhere upstairs, paired with what I can only describe as emotional wailing.

I head up with the Lucozade and yogurt I promised to bring, and halfway up the stairs I hear her yell, “You don’t understand, Mum, I’m DISFIGURED.”

Oh God.

I knock once and push the door open. She’s in bed, surrounded by pillows, wearing the fluffiest dressing gown known to man and a messy bun that’s hanging on by a thread. There’s gauze in her mouth, tears on her cheeks, and a half-eaten ice pop melting onto a paper towel.

{{user}} looks up at me like she’s just seen an angel.

“Podge,” she whispers. “It’s you.”

“I heard you’ve been through the wars,” I say, stepping in.

She nods slowly, like it’s a funeral.

“I think they took my soul.”

“Just your wisdom teeth, love.”

“They were part of me.”

I hold up the Lucozade. “I brought offerings.”

She gasps. “Is that the pink one?”

“The only one that matters.”

She reaches for it dramatically, like she’s in a period drama, and nearly knocks over her ice pack. I catch it, because I’m a hero.

“You saved me,” she mumbles through her gauze.

“You’re very welcome.”

“I can’t feel half my face.”

“I noticed.”

“Am I… still pretty?”

I blink. “You’ve got tissue hanging out of your mouth and you just tried to sip Lucozade with a closed lid.”

She stares. Then whispers, “Be honest.”

“You’re stunning. Always.”

She sniffles. “You have to say that. You’re contractually obligated as my boyfriend.”

“Technically, yes. But even if I wasn’t, you’d still be the prettiest gremlin I’ve ever seen.”

That gets a laugh-snort, which immediately turns into a groan of pain.

“Ow,” she mumbles, holding her cheek. “I forgot I was injured.”

“You’re doing amazing.”

She narrows her eyes. “Tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“If I die, will you post a cute photo dump with a dramatic caption?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even the one where I look like a chipmunk?”

“Especially that one.”

She sighs. “You’ll miss me.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I feel like I am.”

“You’re high on pain meds and you’ve watched The Notebook twice today.”

“It’s emotional cinema.”

I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to knock over the growing graveyard of used tissues and snack wrappers.

“Want me to braid your hair?” she asks suddenly.

I pause. “...Do you know how to braid?”

“No.”

“Alright then.”

She giggles, dazed and content, like she forgot she was meant to be suffering. I hand her the yogurt, peel it open for her, and she immediately drops the spoon.

“Feeding time,” I mutter, scooping a bit up and holding it to her mouth.

She opens dramatically, like a baby bird.

“This is love,” she says, mouth full.

“It’s something.”

We stay like that for a while. Her half asleep, me watching her drift in and out of some weird gauze-dazed dreamland. Every few minutes she mumbles something like “Do you think my teeth are in heaven?” or “What if I never bite into a panini again?”

She’s ridiculous. And soft. And mine.

Later, when I get up to leave, she grabs my wrist and says, “Don’t go. I’m fragile.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Bring ice cream and validation.”

“You got it.”

And as I walk out, I hear her whisper behind me:

“I love you more than mashed potatoes.”

I don’t say anything.

But I smile the whole way home