𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜

im not your protagonist, I'm not even my own

[sweet hibiscus tea - Penelope Scott]

[05]

        Through the whole night, you stayed seated in the bathroom, hugging your shivering body. You'd lost any kind of grasp of time within the past few hours you'd been awake. Your empty eyes chipped away at the wall across from you-- making out faces and creatures in the bumpy texture to distract your sickly mind.

        Your nose was stuffy and your breath hot. An irrational fear to move your body took over-- afraid that even the slight twitch of an arm would have you hurling out whatever was possibly left in your gut. You vaugely recall a conversation with your mom, her cool hands against your forehead as she looked at you with pity.

        You assumed it was nearing around nine in the morning when you finally mustered up the courage to get to your feet. It went without saying that given the circumstances, you were granted the rest of the week off-- both from work and school. Your head felt more like a helium pumped balloon and a new wave of nausea rushed over you with every step you took, your legs feeling as though they're about to snap in two.

       Stumbling out of the bathroom, you're able to gain a somewhat steady mind as you bring yourself out of your delusional state. As much as you'd love to just collapse into your bed, something tells you the action of plummeting your dizzy body down wouldn't exactly be the best idea.

       You mumble incoherent complaints to no one but the walls as you struggle all the way out of your room and down the stairs-- taking a minute to stabilize yourself after every few steps.

        You rummage through the various over-the-counter pill bottles you have sitting on your counter. You stare at the labels of each, unable to properly read them. After sorting through pain killers and vitamins, you finally find fever suppressants-- and a rather dusty thermometer stuffed into the very back of the drawer. 

        Wiping the grime from the thermometer against your shirt, you hesitantly stick it under your tongue. You lean over the kitchen island, droopy eyes scanning over the recommended dosage. Pouring out two of the tablets, the thermometer beeps. With a sigh you take it out, eyes wide as you re-read the numbers over and over; 103.8°. 

        You quickly swallow down the pills dry. 

        You notice a phone sitting on the counter. Your brows furrow, picking it up. Sure enough, its your phone, but you would've sworn you left it upstairs. You try to retrace your steps, thinking back to the night before, but you can't come up with a proper explanation.

        Before you can ponder much longer, the screen turns on, a familiar jingle accompanying the rythmic vibrating of the phone against the kitchen island. The screen displays you and your online friends profile picturers right next to each other. 

        Tapping the green phone icon, you quickly put him on speaker. "Why do you never text before you call?" You retoricaly croak, voice cracking with every syllable. 

        "Jesus, you sound awful-- everything alright?" He asked, his icon lighting up.

        "No," you state honestly, pushing yourself from the counter and walking over to the living room. "I think I have the flu or something."  

        "Oh," He states, a strange, implacable kind of tone to his voice. "That's unfortunate, 'specially considering...Ya know, everything that happened." 

        You hum as you sit yourself down on the couch, laying your back against the cushions. "Wait," You start, sitting back up again, staring down at your phone with a questioning glare as if he could see you. "How did you know about that?"