Jonathan had always possessed a strong immune system; it was rare he got sick and even more rare to get so ill he could barely move—but today disaster struck in the form of a terrible cold. Coughing, shaking, a fever… He’d never felt so shitty (but that was what everyone said when they were bedridden).
Truthfully, the thing that hurt the most was the isolation. He was not a social person; preferring small crowds, and the company of those with which he was comfortable, but not being able to hang out with Will, or have a proper conversation with his mother after work (he wasn’t even able to go to work), sucked.
The worst part, though, was not seeing Steve and Nancy.
It was nearly noon on a Monday, three days after the beginning of this god-awful illness, and by this time he’d exhausted all of his mixtapes, thrown up twice, and napped for two hours straight. He’d woken up with a headache and ripped his headphones off, body cold, covered in sweat. I’m dying, he’d decided.