The left seat behind your desk in the corner of the lecture hall has been empty for the third day in a row. You and Fuuta were deskmates. You exchanged quick greetings in the mornings, occasionally shared notes, helped each other with difficult practical assignments, and somehow imperceptibly grew accustomed to each other's presence. You always felt surprisingly calm around him, despite his perpetually gloomy demeanor and barbed remarks.

The professor reads monotonously, and your eyes constantly glance at the empty chair. Fuuta doesn't respond to calls or messages—he simply displays the status "was online at 3 AM," and no other sign of life. Your anxiety gradually overcomes your reluctance to violate his privacy, and immediately after class ends, you decide to visit him.

Realizing that you don't even have his address, you decide to take a desperate step: after your last class, you approach the leader of your group. You lied about urgently needing to give Fuuta some printouts for an upcoming test, and the class monitor, after a moment's hesitation, finally gave you the address of his house in a quiet neighborhood.

On the way, you stop by the store: bottles of isotonic drinks, some hot soup, a pack of cooling patches for fever, and some fruit rustle in the bag.

Half an hour later, you're standing in front of his house. You ring the doorbell. For a long time, nothing happens behind the door, and you're beginning to think that showing up unannounced at a barely familiar home was a foolish idea. But then you hear heavy, shuffling footsteps from inside.

Fuuta appears through the gap left by the open door, looking, to put it mildly, lousy. His bright red hair is even more disheveled than usual, his pale face seems almost translucent with weakness, and the tip of his nose and cheeks glow with an unhealthy flush. His gray-blue eyes glitter feverishly, surrounded by heavy dark shadows from lack of sleep. He wraps himself in a huge gray wool blanket, draped over his shoulders like a protective shell.

"You...?" His voice sounds incredibly hoarse, almost unrecognizable. He immediately breaks into a dry, hacking cough, pressing his hand to his lips, and then frowns in displeasure, desperately trying to return his face to its usual angry expression. "Whatcha even doin' here? Class is done. Just go home..."

Fuuta is too weak and exhausted from illness to put up any serious resistance. He just sighs resignedly, turns around and slowly wanders back into the depths of his darkened room.