#4 : no title

The sun was already spilling through my eyes like it owned the place. I blinked once, twice, then shoved my face back into the pillow. I’d skipped dinner the night before. Not out of angst. Just forgot. Got caught up rewatching old surgical procedures on mute while pretending to study anatomy. Somewhere between spleens and sleep, I’d passed out.

Now my stomach was staging a mild protest. Not sharp enough to be alarming. Just annoying enough to make lying still feel like punishment.

I groaned and curled in a little tighter.

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t even a real knock—more like an impatient two-finger drumroll on the dorm door.

“Daniel. You alive?”

Seth.

I debated pretending to be dead.

“Daniel.”

The door creaked open before I could fake a last breath. I heard his steps, then the dramatic pause he always did when my room looked like it had fought a hurricane and lost.

“You nesting in here now?”

“Go away,” I mumbled.

He walked over, boots heavy on the floor. “You’re still in bed.”

“Sharp observation. Maybe you should’ve studied medicine.”

“You look pale.”

“I’m literally always pale.”

“You look paler. You eat?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“Why?”

“Was busy.”

“Doing what, starving to death?”

I rolled over just enough to look at him. His face was somewhere between concerned and irritated. Classic Seth.

“I’ll survive.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

He sat down on the edge of my bed like he owned it. Nudged my leg with his knee. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m aware.”

“Pain?”

I shrugged.

“On a scale of one to you after three coffees and no food?”

“About a two.”

He stood up. Started searching through a desk under my table where I usually keep medical supplies.

I watched as he rummaging through my stuffs like he knows a solution.

Then, he brought a bottle of something I wasn't really looking carefully.

“I think it's liquid. ” he scanned, shaking the bottle.

I didn't respond.

He took a full spoon of the medicine and slowly tilted it in my mouth. That's when I tasted something strong, unusual, and definitely expired.

I quickly threw up the medicine, snatched the bottle in his hand and read “Colax? ”

“It's only for constipation you idiot. ”

His reaction was full-guilt.It's nothing like the calm and reserved genius in front of me.

He stood up again, grabbed the hoodie hanging off the chair, and threw it at my face. “Put this on. We’re getting food.”

I didn’t move.

“Daniel.”

“It’s fine. I’ll eat later.”

“Yeah? What’s on the menu—regret and stomach acid?”

I groaned, half from the pain and half because arguing with him was like yelling at a very judgmental golden retriever.

He didn’t leave. Just stood there. Waiting.

“Princess carry?”

“Nice try.”

“Get up.”

I sat up slowly. “I swear if this ends with you dragging me to some overpriced smoothie place with names like ‘H&N,’ I’m jumping out the window.”

“I got real food. Bread. Eggs. Rice. Stuff you can pronounce.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

And then I got up.

...----------------...

We ended up back at his place. He’d apparently broken into someone’s kitchen—or borrowed it, depending on how he define “borrowing.” He cracked eggs like a professional, poured oil without spilling a drop, and had something sizzling in a pan while I slumped against the counter.

“You cook now?”

“Had to survive without you, Mom.”

“That’s fair.”

He passed me a plate. I inhaled half of it before even thanking him.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” he said.

“I’m working on it.”

“You’ve been saying that since high school.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

He shook his head, not unkindly.

“You ever think about what it’ll be like after I’m gone?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Liar.”

I shrugged. “I don’t plan that far ahead. Might drop out and start selling anatomy flashcards on the street.”

“Custom illustrations?”

“Naturally.”

He smirked. “I'll invest.”

I finished my food, pushed the plate away, and leaned back in the chair. My stomach still hurt, but less now.

“You’re really leaving, huh?”

He nodded. “Eleven days.”

Eleven days sounded shorter than two weeks, somehow.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said.

“You keep saying that like I’m the one leaving.”

“You’ll still have your corpses.”

“True love never dies.”

He laughed. Then stood, grabbed both plates, and started washing them like it was just any day. Like nothing big was shifting under our feet.

I watched him for a second longer than I meant to.

Then stood up and said, “Next time, don’t knock. Just bring food.”

“No promises.”

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