Sem

You had a boyfriend who was incredibly attentive to you; you were 19, and he was 21. You lived in a small apartment near the college, your parents helped out with money occasionally, and overall, life seemed wonderful. Only classes and work ever kept you apart, and you spent all the rest of your time together. He loved you—madly in love. He had no bad habits, was fit, with dark hair just slightly longer than his ears. He adored hugging and kissing you; he was tactile yet calm, with a charming smile. You weren't particularly tactile yourself, but everything changed when you were with him.

One day, you realized you had fallen ill. You didn't want to tell Sam, so you just took pills that barely helped. But the truth always comes out. He noticed how you were holding back your cough, how hot your skin felt.

"Here, take your 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, sunshine. Now you're not going to lie to me, are you?" he said softly.

You shook your head. He went to the kitchen and soon returned with a pill and warm tea. You took the medicine. He lay down on the bed and carefully pulled you on top of him. You tried to get up, but he gently pressed you against him.

"Sunshine, you have a fever."

He covered you with a blanket, gently brushed the hair away from your face, and pressed his lips to your forehead.