In the middle of finals week, I come down with a high fever, burning throat and unrelenting headache. Throughout high school, I had perfect attendance and rarely got sick, but when I did it was always during the holidays. My body has a way of holding out and making it through important tasks before allowing itself to break down. This time, I decompose one day early.

The Spanish final on Monday is straightforward, and my thorough preparation pays off as I zip through the multiple choice questions as well as the short answers.

The following day, I take my Inventing America exam, which consists of three full-length essays based on prompts that Professor Sharp had provided to us a week in advance. I prepared the most for this exam out of any others, and I leave class feeling solid about the responses I produced.

I arrive on Wednesday morning to my jazz appreciation class with a hint of a tickle in my throat, and by the time I finish the exam, my tonsils have ballooned to twice their regular size. My final for literature is an open-book, take-home exam which opens for exactly three hours on Canvas. I consider stopping by the campus market for Advil, but I'm anxious about losing even one minute of work time, so I rush back to my dorm instead and log into my laptop. I regret this decision as the headache swells, causing my vision to go dizzy. Honestly, I can't recall having been this sick since early childhood, when I used to get strep throat all the time.

Through sheer grit, I type out responses to the six short answer prompts and two full-length essays, tears streaming down my cheeks as I work. I keep it together only because I know it will all be over soon.

With only five minutes remaining in the testing window, I submit my responses and break down crying aloud. My brain is a massive, muddy ache, and I'm not certain if I just analyzed the themes of James Joyce or wrote an essay about fish skin. I'm worried about my grade plummeting from this exam, but mostly I am embarrassed about submitting gibberish to my professor and looking like an idiot.

After a brief cry, I compose myself, blow my nose and lie down to rest. As I drift off to sleep, my phone begins pinging with messages from my friends celebrating the end of finals. By this evening, everyone will be finished.

Let's go have dinner downtown! Ethan sends to Isla, Elia and me.

Fun! Let's do it! responds Elia.

Yesssss!!!!! Isla chimes in.

They continue bantering and sending stupid GIFs, and I start to laugh aloud at one until the blisters in my throat feel as though they are cracking open and bleeding into my esophagus.

Nati, are you alive? Ethan asks after a while, when I don't join the conversation. I attempt to respond but give up when I realize my entire body is aching and shivering. I conk out for a few minutes, waking up to the incessant notifications buzzing through.

Shit, is she in exams still? asks Elia. Hope you have your phone turned off, Nati!

She should be done by now, Isla comments. Natalia Stevens!!! Are you there???

I laugh again, the sound escaping like the groan of a yeti.

I'm dying, I say with a skull emoji.

Huh? Ethan responds immediately.

I have strep throat or something. I can't move my body.

Oh my God! Everyone begins lamenting my current state and the fact that I won't be able to join for dinner and tonight's drunken shenanigans. I drift back off to sleep with a cloudy head that pounds with pain, FOMO and intense contentment.

* * *

From a deep sleep, far disconnected from reality, I slowly register the repeated knocking. It continues as I struggle to roll out of bed. I stumble to the door on shaky legs and turn the lock with shivering fingers. It's Ethan.

"Oh my God, Natalia!" His expression is so sweet, filled with genuine concern, and I'm grateful to see him standing in front of me. He hugs me.

"Don't," I whisper. "I don't want to get you sick."

"I don't care," he says. I notice he is holding a paper sack. As I tumble back into bed and pull the covers over myself, now chilled and trembling from the exertion of walking across the room, Ethan pulls out a bottle of Advil from the bag.

"Take this," he insists, tipping two reddish pills into his palm and passing them to me. He removes a small box of crackers, an orange Gatorade and a bottle of water from the bag, unscrewing the lid of the water before handing it to me.

"Thanks," I croak. The visit and level of care is unexpected, and I wish I could tell him what it means to me, but I can barely keep my eyes open or form words in my mind.

Ethan straightens the covers and pulls them tighter around my neck, then strokes my back for a couple minutes.

"I wish you weren't sick and could hang out with us tonight. This sucks."

"Me too," I whisper with my eyes closed.

"I'm leaving this stuff on your desk, but if you need anything else let me know." He hesitates. "Or, do you want me to stay?"

"No, I don't want you to get sick. Go have fun."

"Okay," he replies reluctantly. "Get better so we can party on Friday before we all leave for break."

I nod. Ethan shifts on the bed to stand up, and I grab his arm in a state of half-consciousness. He settles back onto the comforter and goes motionless. I'm patting or stroking his arm, mostly unaware of what I'm doing, but attempting to convey my gratefulness.

"Ethan."

"Nati?"

"You're so nice."

He grabs my hand for a moment, and I don't want him to let go.

* * *

After several rounds of Advil, sixteen hours of sleep and a cup of disgusting chicken soup Krista brought me from the campus market, I am able to sit up without feeling like my brain will split in half. I manage to shower, and I continue taking it easy all day on Thursday watching movies on my phone.

By Friday afternoon, I am mostly recovered, and I take a short, slow walk around campus. I spend a long while staring into the reflecting pool, not exactly thinking about anything, just allowing fleeting memories and sensations of the semester to wash over me like golden ripples.

When I return to my room and open the desk drawer to take out my journal, the purple rubber bracelet that our RA tossed to me on my first night at LC drops to the floor. Reflection.

I smile, a little chuckle croaking out as a short vibration from my now-healed throat. Tiny coincidences and cheesy, meaningful moments such as this are my favorite thing in life.

Natiiiii!!!!! Are you better??? Isla calls to me longingly through the group chat.

Yes!!!!!!!!!! I type.

They all send hearts and party hat with confetti emojis.

Let's party! This is from Ethan.

Let's gooo! Elia adds.

I strut to the walk-in closet to retrieve a towel so I can shower. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I grin to myself, my deep brown eyes sparkling.

* * *

"I have a cowboy hat." A very drunk Ethan doubles over in laughter at his own inside joke that none of us understand. He is struggling to pronounce words... or perhaps my brain is too impaired to decode his words.

"What?" I yell over the music. We are in Ethan's dorm room, and there are about a dozen people hanging out. Ethan actually has quite a range of friends—primarily drinking buddies—but he chooses to spend most of his free time with Elia, Isla and me.

"A cowboy hat. Remember?" He bounces his eyebrows at me suggestively, as if trying to trigger my memory. "A few weeks ago? At Micah's?"

"Yeah?" I respond. "When we passed the cowboy hat around?" I have no idea what he is getting at.

"Yeah," he coaxes. "And something else happened that night too?" He is teasing me; I imagine I know what it's in reference to, but does he have a point?

"When we took off our shirts?" I ask. Or is he referring to my random kiss with Shawn that night? Apparently, I have sufficient alcohol in my system right now.

"Yes." He blushes, and I realize for the first time how close he is to me. We are seated together on his bed, our legs side-by-side, and he keeps touching me.

"So, what are you implying?" I ask, accidentally speaking too loudly. "Spell it out for me, please! My brain neurons are drowning in rum and Coke—they aren't making any connections, so stop being subtle!"

"Stop being subtle? Okay..." A mischievous expression casts across his face, and he takes my hands in his, urgent and childlike, shifting his body to face me on the bed. His legs still make contact with mine in places. I love the rush of the physical contact with my friends when we drink—the dancing, the magnetic pull within the space between us as we talk, the constant touches.

"Will the girls start taking off their clothes if I produce my cowboy hat from the closet?" He is cracking up at his own stupid joke, and I slap his wrist, a bit too hard. Despite his hard-core partying habits, Ethan strikes me as fairly reserved when it comes to girls.

"You're trying to make a joke? So inappropriate, Ethan!" I scold in jest, laughing with him and shoving his arm. "I don't think the stripping was a direct result of the cowboy hat. Correlation does not equal causation."

He downs the rest of his drink and repositions himself on his bed, putting his arm around me as he leans us back against a giant pile of pillows.

"Who are you hoping to see without their shirt on?" I ask boldly, all filter and judgment gone at this point.

"I probably shouldn't say," he replies, his voice going quiet. I lean against his shoulder, which smells like fresh laundry, closing my eyes as extreme relaxation overtakes me.

Ethan shakes me and pushes my whole body to sitting position. "Oh, no you don't! It's still early, I'm not letting you fall asleep yet!"

We hop up from the bed, and he pours us each a fresh drink. Everyone begins dancing, and I completely let myself melt into the rhythms and melodies blasting though the speaker. After dancing for what seems like hours, people start to head out, including Elia, whose girlfriend is arriving from New York early tomorrow morning to visit. Eventually, Ethan, Isla and I are the only ones remaining, and we all sprawl across Ethan's bed to continue chatting.

"Natalia, whatever happened with Joshua?" Ethan asks me, playing with my long hair.

"Nothing," I remark, shrugging. And I'm so grateful that I literally feel nothing over the incident beyond amusement.

"Any other crushes in your life?" he pries. Isla smirks and makes strange sounds beside us.

"Yes, Isla? Something you'd like to share with the group?" Ethan chides in an elementary teacher voice. He pokes at her sides, causing her to squirm and giggle.

"Oh, nothing," she replies in a pointed tone.

"No crushes, really," I say. "Nothing serious." My mind hurtles to Alex, as it always does. He has a girlfriend, and he lives in another state. Ancient history. Still, sometimes I wish so badly I could have shared one kiss with him. Preferably not one involving a river of saliva gushing into my throat.

All of a sudden, the room is spinning, and it's not because of Alex.

"I don't feel so good."

Isla bolts up to grab her water bottle, and Ethan sits me up, his arms wrapped firmly around me. I sip water, and Isla helps me to the bathroom down the hall. I stare in the mirror, concentrating all my efforts into holding back vomit, feeling worse than I did on Wednesday when I was ill.

My friends help me into Ethan's bed. As I drift in and out of sleep, I'm aware that they both stay in the room with me, and I think Isla eventually crashes in the other empty bed since Ethan's roommate flew home this morning for winter break. At some point, as the room hurtles around my head in violent circles, I realize Ethan is lying next to me under the covers and has my whole body enveloped in his gentle, protective arms. I fall into a deep sleep, the nausea at bay.

In the middle of the night, I wake up to a completely unexpected situation. Ethan and I are still wrapped together, facing each other, and Ethan is... awake and breathing heavily. What on Earth? It takes me several seconds to assimilate this information and form the necessary connections.

I don't understand...

I just lie there, face-to-face with him, as his breathing intensifies. I feel his body shift next to mine, like he wants to get close, like he's as nervous and as uncertain as I am.

We somehow move nearer to one another. More seconds pass. Our lips meet and move gently, slowly.

Ethan breaks away and chuckles.

"What?" I demand.

"That was the weirdest kiss." Oh my God, what? I liked it. He props himself up on his elbow and reaches over me to grab Isla's water bottle off his desk.

"Our mouths are both so dry," he tells me. Oh. He hands me water, then slurps down several long gulps. "Let's try again," he whispers.

We come together, and it's way better than the kisses I shared with Shawn and certainly nothing like my first kiss with Joshua. Our mouths are made for each other. I sense Ethan's body warming up, pressing into me like he wants more. His fingers dig very lightly into my arms, around my waist, against my back as he pulls me in tighter.

This time, I'm the one snickering as we separate to catch our breath. Ethan smiles, his face still near mine.

"I can see you are just as amused by this as I am," he remarks. I suppose two close friends ending up in bed together, making out after a night of drinking is a common occurrence, but in my inexperience and naiveté, this is blowing my mind.

"I'm just very surprised right now," I say with an even voice, holding back a grin.

"It's not like I haven't thought you were cute for a really long time," he admits. My brain explodes.