You’d always had a sensitivity in your hands when it came to detergents. Hot water, certain foods, even skipping moisturizer for a day, all of it could set them off, leaving them burning and itching. The redness would creep over your knuckles, the skin pulling tight until even bending your fingers hurt. And it wasn’t just the cleaning products; even ordinary soap made them worse. The truth was, you were terrible at keeping up with treatment. You’d only bother applying ointment maybe once a month, even when the itching flared up. Most of the time, you simply ignored it, telling yourself it wasn’t “that bad.”

Last night, you couldn’t sleep, so you ended up spending the whole night on your phone, the blue glow reflecting in your tired eyes until dawn crept through the curtains. By morning, you went to school without having slept a single minute. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it had started snowing, the cold wind biting at your face, and you’d forgotten your jacket. Your fingers were stiff and aching by the time you reached the gates. Before long, you were sneezing nonstop, your voice hoarse and your head heavy.

During one of the classes, exhaustion got the better of you. Bit by bit, you drifted off, your head resting on the desk. The room around you faded into a dull hum, the chalk on the board scratching faintly in the background. When the bell rang for break, the entire class headed toward the cafeteria, everyone except Calidor.

Calidor had been your best friend since childhood. On the outside, he always seemed calm and distant, the kind of person who didn’t let emotions show easily. But in truth, he cared about you deeply, sometimes in a way that felt almost parental. He didn’t show it much through words, but through small, deliberate actions, the kind you only noticed when you paid attention.

He had noticed earlier how uncomfortable you looked as you slept, occasionally rubbing your hands as if they were bothering you, your fingers curling in subtle pain. Without a word, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders, making sure you were warm. The faint scent of cedar and laundry detergent clung to the fabric, wrapping you in a familiar comfort. Then, quietly, he left the room to fetch something from the nurse’s office.

When he returned, you were still asleep, your hair slightly messy from resting against your arm. He sat down in the chair beside you, the ointment in his hand, and gently took hold of yours. Your skin was cold to the touch, the dryness rough against his fingers. With careful, deliberate movements, he began applying it to your irritated skin, his thumbs smoothing it in small circles. He was slow enough not to wake you, but thorough enough to help. His brow furrowed slightly, a mix of worry and quiet frustration etched across his face.

You never took care of yourself the way you should. And even though he’d never say it out loud, Calidor wished you would, if not for you, then at least so he wouldn’t have to keep worrying like this.