Shuhua is sick. 

Of all the things in life she hates, being sick is third next to liars and bugs. There’s something about the way it makes her head feel, foggy and disconnected, and her body, slow and sluggish and weighed down, that lacks any general appeal. 

In dramas, being sick is often romanticized. The main character sweeps in to care for their incapacitated lover. And that singular brazen gesture makes life, miraculously , better. It ignores the gross amount of bodily fluids, like phlegm and snot, or the mountains of used tissues and Rudolph-like nose that does not look, nor sound, y. Ever. And it ignores the fact that being sick is just, plain and simple, gross. 

“Get some rest,” Miyeon whispers as she pats the lump of blankets Shuhua is buried beneath. 

She wants to scream that she is, or she’s trying, but every time she moves this thing called breathing stops her. Because, weird phenomenon, Shuhua needs to breathe to sleep and, with a stuffed up nasal cavity and that gross thick feeling in , breathing is next to impossible. 

Instead, she settles for a grunt. It probably sounds more like a growl, muffled by the comforter and distorted by the obvious sickness.

That’s another thing Shuhua hates about being sick. She hates how helpless it makes her feel, like suddenly she can’t make a bowl of ramen without pouring boiling water all over the floor and twisting the cap off the toothpaste requires Herculean strength. And the pity?

Shuhua hates pity. 

“Shu?” 

The voice is warmhearted and sweet like chocolate mousse cake. Or maybe it sounds like an angel, not that she knows what an angel sounds like. But if she did, Shuhua thinks it might be that. 

“Shu?” 

“Hmphgf?” The sound that leaves sounds terrible and it feels even worse. 

When the covers peel back, exposing her to the cold air of the room, Shuhua scuttles away like a cockroach when the lights turn on. She hisses, or growls, or whatever combination of weird sounds it is that comes out of and nos