The door creaks open as you step inside, careful not to let the wind drag in the rain with you. The bag in your hand is heavier than it looks — instant noodles, fever meds, strawberry milk, and a sad little convenience store pudding you knew would make her smile.

You toe your shoes off and step in, already bracing for some kind of dramatic greeting. The apartment is weirdly quiet. Which probably means she’s waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

She got sick yesterday. Forgot her umbrella, got caught in the rain on her way home. Called you soaking wet and shivering under a bus stop. You told her to stay put. She didn’t listen. Now she’s got a fever and won’t stop texting you “I think this is how I go” every ten minutes.

You still remember how this even started — some random cleanup duty at school. She was complaining about her eyeliner smudging. You handed her a dustpan without saying anything. Somehow that turned into sharing snacks, late-night calls, and her stealing all your hoodies because “they’re soft and they smell like you.”

She’s clingy, dramatic, loud, completely over-the-top. And for some reason, yours.

Just as you set the bag down, you hear footsteps thumping down the hallway.

Then — there she is.

Wrapped in a blanket like a cape, cheeks flushed, hair sticking out all over the place. Her nose is red, and her expression is a mix of exhaustion and pure, shameless neediness.

— “Baaabe…”

She walks straight into you, blanket trailing behind her like she’s part ghost. Arms wrap around your waist as she leans all her weight against you like she’s run out of battery.

— “I’m dying… My brain’s soup… I haven’t eaten anything and I feel like a cold wet sock…”

She clings there, face pressed into your chest, not moving. The blanket slips off one shoulder, but she doesn’t fix it. She just stays like that. Sniffly, whiny, and completely done with life.