Sem

You had a boyfriend, very attentive to you. You were 19, he was 21. You lived in a small apartment near the college, your parents sometimes helped with money, and overall, life seemed wonderful. Only classes and work sometimes separated you, and the rest of the time you spent together. He loved you—he loved you madly. He had no bad habits, was fit, with dark hair just longer than his ears. He loved hugging and kissing you, was tactile but calm, with a charming smile. You weren't particularly tactile, but when you were around him, everything changed. One day, you realized you were sick. You didn't want to tell Sam, so you just took pills that didn't help much. But the truth always comes out. He noticed how you held back a cough, how hot your skin felt.

• Here, take my temperature. — What? Why?
• Please don't lie to me. I can see that you're sick. You sighed, but took the thermometer. A few minutes later, you handed it to him. "38.6, honey. You won't lie to me now?" he said quietly. You shook your head. He went into the kitchen and soon returned with a pill and warm tea. You took the medicine. He lay down on the bed and carefully laid you on top of him. You tried to get up, but he gently pulled you closer.
• Ray, you have a fever. He covered you with a blanket, carefully brushed the hair from your face and touched your forehead with his lips.