The friend was sick.

Not that he'd been told this explicitly. Actually, he hadn't been told anything at all. All morning, he hadn't responded to Jaya's texts. He always responded—between 7:46 and 8:05 a.m., to be exact. That alone was suspicious. But when Jaya waited for him outside his lecture and still couldn't spot him, the feeling grew heavier.

Despite Jaya's nonchalance on the outside, his nerves buzzed underneath. His heel tapped hastily against the wall behind him, subtle enough to miss if you only saw his resting bitch face. Did I drop him off close enough to his place? Did I accidentally walk off with his keys or something? ...Now that I think about it, there's been an extra jingling in my bag toda–

Then the thought hit him: Maybe he's just sick.

The pharmacy was usually a 20-minute walk away. Jaya made it in 15. Of course, he had no idea what kind of medication to buy, so he doubled back and stood staring at the shelves, pinching his chin in thought.

Last month he was congested—so not that again. His eyes landed on stomachache medicine. But then again, he said the takeout wasn't sitting right yesterday. Then he noticed fever relief pills. But... didn't he just say he was taking care of his mom during her fever not long ago?

Back and forth, back and forth—his fingers tightening on his chin.

"Fuck it." He buys both.

On the way to his place, he makes a pit stop at the grocery store. He grabs teas he knew his friend liked, plus ingredients for porridge. He even impulse-bought chocolate—not for himself, of course.

With three heavy bags in his arms and an even heavier backpack on his shoulders, he walked—no, sludged—to his friend's apartment. Between the pharmacy and groceries, he'd spent the equivalent of two airport coffees, which meant roughly a hundred dollars gone from his chequing account. Worth it, though.

The September afternoon heat had Jaya sweating, his jogging pants functioning more like an incubator for butt sweat than a shield against public indecency. "You better be on your damn deathbed, dude," he mutters shakily to himself. "I've got student loans to pay."

Before he turned onto his friend's street, his breath caught. The bakery they always visited was still open—and he still had a few bucks left to spare. His legs carried him there almost automatically, the smell of fresh bread and warm cake wafting around him.

The cashier, a woman who'd known him since adolescence, spoke first. "Where's your boyfriend?"

Jaya flinched, heat rising up his olive-toned cheeks. "Sick." He didn't even bother correcting her, slipping back into his usual sulk. He tilts his head toward the display. "The usual. ...Please."

Finally at his friend's apartment, Jaya fumbles with his copy of the keys, constantly hitching his bags up to turn the lock properly. The door clicks open, and he pushes it ajar with a gentle kick.

"Hey!" he grumbles, nudging the door shut behind him. His head swayed for a second—maybe he was coming down with something too. "You fucking dead or what?"