Taylor rarely got sick. But when she did, it was drama. Not on purpose—she just didn’t know how to be sick quietly. Her nose was stuffy, her voice raspy, and she was buried under a pile of mismatched blankets on the couch, clutching a tissue box like it was a Grammy.

“Ughh, my throat feels like sandpaper mixed with sadness,” she croaked, eyes peeking over the edge of a fleece throw covered in tiny cats wearing sunglasses.