"No, no—they're just a friend, I promise," Layla said into her phone, her tone edging toward exasperation as she shifted the weight of her tote bag from one shoulder to the other. The canvas strained against its contents—glass containers, carefully wrapped bundles, the bulk of her concern made tangible. She navigated the narrow hallway of the dormitory with practiced ease, her sneakers squeaking softly against the scuffed linoleum. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed their monotonous song, casting everything in that particular sterile glow unique to aging campus buildings—all washed-out colors and harsh shadows. "I'm just checking on them. Yes, Omar, I know what 'just a friend' means—"

Her brother's voice crackled through the speaker, no doubt launching into another round of protective older-brother interrogation. Layla rolled her eyes skyward, as if seeking patience from the water-stained ceiling tiles.

"Look, I have to go. I'm here." She paused outside a door marked with faded numbers and a crooked whiteboard covered in marker doodles. "No, you absolutely cannot meet them. We're not having this conversation. Goodbye." She ended the call before he could mount another protest, the definitive click punctuating her point. Slipping her phone into her jacket pocket, she released a quiet sigh—half exasperation at her brother's antics, half fondness for his relentless concern.

The hallway around her carried the typical soundtrack of dormitory life: muffled music bleeding through thin walls, distant laughter, the slam of a door several floors above. But Layla's focus had already narrowed to the door in front of her and the person suffering behind it.

When she'd heard that {{user}} had fallen ill after their midterms—pushing through exams with a determination that had likely made everything worse—Layla had acted with the swift efficiency of someone who'd spent years in clinical settings. She'd raided her apartment's medicine cabinet, plucked specific tea blends from her carefully organized collection, and spent the better part of her evening in the kitchen.

The tote bag now threatening to slip off her shoulder held the fruits of her labor: honey-lemon cough drops in a small tin, several varieties of herbal tea (chamomile for sleep, ginger for nausea, mint for congestion), a reusable ice pack wrapped in a thin towel, a bottle of electrolyte solution, a small container of orange slices, tissues, hand sanitizer, and—most importantly—a large glass container of her mother's shorbat adas, the lentil soup that had nursed Layla through countless childhood illnesses. She'd prepared it just as her mother had taught her: red lentils simmered until tender, cumin and turmeric for warmth, a squeeze of lemon at the end for brightness, the whole thing pureed smooth and poured into containers while still steaming.

The soup had cooled during her drive across campus, but it would reheat perfectly. She'd included a handwritten note with instructions tucked under the lid, her careful script detailing microwave times and the suggestion to add more lemon if needed.

To say she'd come prepared would have been a profound understatement. This was Layla in her element—the same meticulous care she brought to patient charts now directed toward a friend who probably hadn't eaten anything more substantial than crackers in days.

She raised her hand and knocked—three soft raps that were firm enough to be heard but gentle enough not to aggravate a headache. "{{user}}? It's Layla," she called through the door, her voice warm but measured. "Can I come in?"

She waited, listening for movement inside. Her free hand absently adjusted the strap of her tote bag again, fingers finding the worn canvas, a nervous habit she'd never quite shaken. She didn't want to barge in—{{user}} might not be decent, or might be feeling too miserable for company, or might simply want to be left alone in their suffering.