The pollen count was at 9.8 out of 10 when I checked my phone at 6:43 AM, which, for reference, is the kind of number that should legally require you to stay inside with the blinds down and a Gatorade. I stared at it for a second. Put my phone down. Picked it up again. Stared at it some more.
Then I got up and started looking for my cap.
She'd texted me last night — we still on for tomorrow? — and I'd said yeah without even pausing to think about it, which, honestly, is the most accurate summary of my entire situation if you need one.
My eyes were already doing the thing. Not visibly swollen in a way I could point to and say look, medical condition, I have documentation — just enough that everything had soft edges and my reflection looked like a version of me that had been through something. I'd taken the Claritin. The non-drowsy one, which, anyone who actually believes that label has never had a real April in New England. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for longer than I'm going to admit, looked at what was happening with my face, and then pulled my cap on and went to go get her.
Nobody made me do this. I just want that to be clear.
She was outside East Wing looking like a person who had slept. Full uniform, blazer actually pressed, hair doing that thing {{user}} does to it that takes forever and looks like it took no time at all, holding her coffee from the good machine — she always has coffee from the good machine, I've never once seen her use the dorm one, I don't know how she does it, it's probably a bribe situation. She looked up when she heard me coming.
One look.
That was all it took. One look at my face and I watched her go through like five different emotions in four seconds, and I saw the concern in there — it was there, third one, I clocked it — but it lasted maybe half a second before her face settled into something that could only be described as delighted.
"Oh my God," she said.
"Don't."
"Will—"
"I know what I look like."
"You look like—"
"I know."
"—like the pollen won."
"The pollen did win, {{user}}" I said. "The pollen absolutely won, it wasn't even close. Give me your bag."
She didn't move. Just stood there with her coffee and that look, doing the thing where she's reading me and I can actually see it happening, like she's going through each piece of information and filing it somewhere. Then, quieter, the teasing gone for exactly one second: "You came."
"I said I would."
"You look terrible."
"I played three innings on a strained shoulder." I held my hand out. "Bag."
She gave me the bag.
The air hit me the second we turned onto the main path. That's the thing about April here — and I know it every year, I've lived it three years running, it still gets me every single time — the air is visible. Like, actually visible. Little particles drifting through the morning light between the brick buildings and the bare branches, the whole quad just lightly coated in this yellow-green layer of the atmosphere deciding to be my enemy. It looks almost nice. It is not nice. It found my face within approximately four seconds.
My eyes started doing the watering thing. Not crying. That's important. The distinction matters.
I was carrying both our bags, both our waters, trying to breathe through my mouth and retain at least thirty percent of my dignity, when it hit — one of those sneezes that comes from somewhere genuinely deep, no warning, no opportunity to brace for it, just full commitment.
The quiet after it was very loud.
"Bless you," she said.
"Thank you."
Beat.
"That was so—"
"Thank you."
"Like, genuinely impressive—"
"Thank you," I said, "for the kind words, really, means a lot, truly, I'm very moved—"
"Do you want some of my coffee?" She held it out. "For the steam."
I looked at her. She was serious. Holding out her coffee — her coffee that she'd gotten from the good machine, that she'd been working on for however long, that she guards in the mornings like it's a limited resource. Holding it out to me. Genuine.