Favour.

Earlier today, I asked Favour what I should write about. She laughed and said, "Write about me."We both laughed because it sounded ridiculous. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she might've been right. Some people deserve to be written about.

Favour is my roommate.

We've been roommates for two years now and, surprisingly, we've never fought. Considering the horror stories people tell about roommates, that's almost enough to qualify us for a documentary. I'm not usually one to pick fights anyway. I still have a life ahead of me. The only problem is that Favour has this peculiar habit of touching my legs simply because she knows I hate physical touch. One of these days, I might actually lose my composure before she graduates. Until then, she remains safe.

Last week, I got sick. I'd spent days trying to convince myself it wasn't serious. I have this terrible habit of pretending things aren't as bad as they are, as though denial is somehow a treatment plan. I dragged myself to the hospital hoping I'd be told it was something small, something that would send me home with a few tablets and a warning to get more rest. Instead, I was admitted.My heart rate was through the roof. I couldn't stop shaking. I felt hot and cold at the same time. I was so weak I couldn't even lift myself. I texted Favour and she came from school. She packed my things without making me ask twice. She stayed with me in the hospital, ran errands, and made sure I wasn't alone. Looking back now, I don't think it's the errands I remember most. It's the fact that she came.

There's something comforting about not having to convince someone that you need them. About someone seeing your vulnerability and responding without hesitation. I don't think this is something one forgets in a hurry. No, I don't think I'll ever forget it. Maybe it's because I'm usually on the other side of these things. I'm used to being the one who stays behind, runs errands, checks in, or puts what I have to do on hold because someone else needs me more. Last week, for what felt like the first time in a long while, someone did that for me.

Maybe we don't always write about people because they've done something extraordinary, we write about them because, in the ordinary moments, they remind us what kindness looks like because long after the hospital discharge, the drugs and the diagnosis fade into the background, I'll remember that when I needed someone, she came.

Ihink that's worth writing about.