It's the season of the four-day (or eight-day, or endless) cold. The first flu fairs aren't until October, the noodles in Milano's chicken noodle soup are still too hard to eat, and your roommate will kill you if you get sick.
So you get sick.
You might realize it with a tickle in your throat as you're falling asleep:
Or the next morning when you can't get out of bed:
You can't make yourself go to class, and it's not for the usual reasons of fatigue/boredom/laziness:
You're trying to remain optimistic in light of your impending doom:
But you soon realize you're in the grips of a cold/upper respiratory infection/flu/unidentified Oregon Trail-like illness and can't escape:
Your symptoms are so disgusting that no one wants to ride the elevator with you:
And even your roommate is losing the energy to help you, afraid she'll get sick (which she obviously will):
If you call your mom, your dad, and your rooommate in the middle of the day and none of them picks up, does that mean no one wants to rub Vicks VapoRub on you?
Eventually, though, you wise up, abandoning homeopathic B.S. for high-octane drugs---you know, the things they make meth out of (and maybe start a "Breaking Bad" Netflix binge in bed):
Before you know it, you'll be back to your old self, forgetting all the life lessons/health pledges you made during your illness.