Julia leaves in a whirlwind of sweatpants, warnings, and overprotective chaos.
She tells me I need to drink warm fluids every two hours. She lists vitamins I should take and leaves a plastic bag full of medicine on the kitchen counter with everything labeled like I'm a child. She makes me promise—on pain of death—that I'll call her if anything gets worse. She even sends me a link of video how to breathe through watery nose.
"I have full classes until afternoon, then rehearsal until like ten at night, and I swear to God if I come back and you're worse because you were being stubborn—" She breaks off, jabbing a finger at my nose. "Liora. Just. Follow. Instructions."
It's chaos. But it's Julia. And I love her.
And then she's gone, slamming the door behind her with the same energy she always brings into and out of my life. The apartment feels quieter without her voice filling every corner. I manage to shuffle back to the couch like a half-dead sloth and wrap myself up again.
