26

I wake up feeling like complete dog poop. The light seeps through the blinds, only adding to my nausea, and the room spins as I try to sit up. I groan and reach for my phone to call in sick for work, resigned to the fact that I'll be stuck at home for God knows how long. My sister is supposed to visit on Friday, and it's only Tuesday!

I've vomited twice already, dreading the thought of having to go to the toilet. So far, I've avoided that particular joy. I check my phone to find a text from Liv, the usual each morning.

Every morning for the past few weeks, Liv and I have been meeting at Tracy's Coffee Stop for a quick coffee fix before work. I swallow down a nauseous bubble and reply.

Liv reads my text but doesn't reply. Instead, she FaceTimes me immediately .

"What part of currently dying didn't you understand?" I struggle to mutter. My voice is hoarse from vomiting, and if I make any sudden movements, my bowels will contract. I can't even sip water, for heaven's sake, because even that will spur on a vomiting spree. I have to take small sips instead—I am so dehydrated, it's beyond a joke now. Liv's face pops up on the screen, concern etched in her features.

"Shittt, you look wrecked. Are you okay?"

"Thanks." I let out a weak chuckle.

"Seriously, what's wrong? You never get sick," she sighs, running a hand through her hair.

It's ironic, yes, that I work with kids and ‘never' get sick. Just my luck now, though. But this doesn't feel like your average flu. No, this feels worse. It's got to be food poisoning. But from what? I recall what I had in the last couple of days, ruling it out to be the sushi from my lunch break yesterday. The school canteen is trialling out new menus for the kids, and I just so happened to have reluctantly tried the sushi. Now look where it's gotten me.

"I don't know, Liv. Food poisoning, maybe? I tried that sushi from the school canteen yesterday."

Her expression turns to one of horror. "Oh, God, that sounds terrible. Do you need anything? Should I come over?" Before I can respond, I hear someone talking in the background on her end of the call. Then a deep voice cuts through, making me shiver despite my nausea.

"Who are you on the phone with so early?"

Liv rolls her eyes and snaps back, "Mind your own business." She tries to move the phone away, but not before I catch a glimpse of Bradley, his hair damp, towel drying his hair.

"Is that Amelia?" he asks, sounding curious. My eyes go wide for a split second, and instinctively, I tilt the phone upward to keep my full face out of the frame. I'll be damned if I let Bradley see me looking like complete and utter dog poop.

Liv glares at her brother. "Yes."

Bradley's brow furrows. "What's wrong?"

I quickly clear my throat, trying to sound less pathetic. "I'm fine. Just a cold." I can see the frown etched on his handsome features. That man is always frowning. Always . He needs to smile more. And I've seen him smile; it's devastatingly adorable.

"You weren't saying that before," she insists. "Seriously, I don't have much planned. I'm here if you need anything."

"Thank you, Liv, but seriously, I'm fine," I say, and she sighs before looking back at the screen.

"Alright, alright. Just get some rest and text me if you need anything."

I'm not fine. No. Definitely not.

Whatever mentality I had this morning? Gone. Out the window. It has now almost been a whole day, and I have gotten progressively worse. After I got off the phone from Liv, I fell back asleep and didn't wake up until lunchtime, to which I proceeded to vomit multiple times. What, you ask?

Nothing! Literally just stomach acid.

Disgusting .

I have always hated vomiting, and it's not like a bad case of emetophobia, just the whole feeling you get afterward. Scratchy throat, severe chest pains, and fatigue. The clock ticks away, and it's already four thirty in the afternoon. Earlier, I had the sense to call Mum for advice on how to shake off this sickness in record time. Her remedy? Hydration and soup. A big yes to soup! She offered to whip up her famous chicken broth soup and promised to swing by before five. Instantly, a wave of gratitude washed over me.

Bless her.

I'm draped over the couch, and yes, I say draped because that's exactly how I am. I can't lie down flat without feeling like I'll spew, and sitting up straight is just uncomfortable. So, here I am, stuck in this awkward in-between, half sitting, half lying down, with my blanket tucked up under my chin to help with the shivers. A glass of Hydralyte sits within arm's reach on the coffee table, while the familiar banter of Friends provides a faint distraction from my misery. Suddenly, I hear a hard knock on my door.

I drag myself off the couch, blanket still wrapped around me, and shuffle slowly to the door. With a sigh, I reach out and twist the doorknob, not expecting much. But as I swing the door open, a gasp escapes me. Standing there, on my doorstep, is not my mother.

No. It's Bradley.

I stand there in shock, staring at Bradley as he holds out a plastic bag and a large Tupperware container filled with a brownish liquid. Is that my mum's soup? I blink, trying to process the sight.

"Hi, sunshine," he says, leaning against the door frame. His hulking frame fills the entire space. Holy crap. "You gonna let me in, or?" His words trail off with a smirk, snapping me out of my stupor. I quickly close my gaping mouth. Is it... rude if I politely decline? Can I even do that?

My mind races as I internally panic. I mean, look at me. I'm a mess—baggy pyjamas, hair a ratty nest, skin as pale as a ghost. The last person I ever wanted to see me like this is Bradley, and yet, here he is, gracing my doorstep, with all his ruggedness and muscles. He's dressed in dark blue cargo pants, Stanley boots, and a black t-shirt. He must've come straight from work. I blink a few more times, hoping maybe he'll disappear if I blink hard enough.

Nope. He's still here.

Looking as real and as handsome as ever.