“He’s nice, yes, but he’s really awkward and weird as hell.”

Those words rang in my head as I sat opposite him, eyes pretending to sift through the notes on the table. I resisted stealing a glance at him, but still sensed the way he worked.

The way he gripped his pencil and bit the end of it was scrutinized through the corner of my eye. Then he coughed aloud, without covering his mouth and I could literally imagine misty droplets of spit descending upon my notes. My hand instinctively recoiled. Then I froze.

Did he see it?

I looked up but his face was unreadable. Spasms of guilt coursed up my strings of consciousness. That would’ve hurt him.

“You aren’t feeling well?” A supposed gesture of concern used to conceal and repent.

“Naw, I fell sick… Doc says it was a virus.” His warm smile made me feel sick at myself.

What had happened to our once-healthy friendship?