Sunday nights were ours. Me and her had this little tradition—movies, takeout, and just hanging out. We met in our first year at university, both a little awkward, trying to navigate the chaos of a new environment. But something clicked when we bonded over our shared love for classic music and spicy food. Over time, we became inseparable—our personalities just fit. We were both stubborn and fiercely independent but had this weird ability to understand each other without saying a word.

We both loved the little things: late-night coffee runs, the smell of old books, and heated debates about whether pineapple belonged on pizza (it didn’t). Sunday nights became sacred—a time to escape from assignments, exams, and everything else, just us and our quiet, unspoken rhythm.

So when she canceled without any real reason, my stomach dropped. Sunday nights were the highlight of my week, the one thing I could always count on. And that time was always with her.

“Can’t make it tonight, sorry. Let’s do it next week.”

Something wasn’t right. I called. No answer.

I didn’t even think; I grabbed my jacket and headed straight for her dorm.

When I knocked, she opened the door slowly. I froze. She looked awful—pale, her cheeks flushed in that sickly way, and her eyes glassy and unfocused. “What’s going on?” I asked, stepping inside before she could stop me.