Chapter Text
The first time it happened, it was still dark outside.
The sky hung heavy with the quiet hush of a winter morning not yet stirred by traffic or footsteps. The neighborhood outside Sieun’s window lay in shades of deep blue, buildings standing like slumbering giants beneath a curtain of fading stars. The kind of silence that blankets everything, soft and reverent, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Sieun stood in front of the bathroom sink, the dull fluorescent light humming overhead, its glow cold against the blue tint of the walls. The mirror reflected the tired slope of his shoulders, the disheveled hair curling at his temple, and the faint shadows under his eyes that no amount of sleep ever seemed to erase.
He leaned forward, hands gripping the porcelain as another cough racked his chest.
It was dry at first. Then sharp. Then wet.
The sound clawed its way up his throat, raw and unwelcome. His ribs tightened with the effort, like something inside him was scraping for release. He turned the faucet on quickly, trying to muffle the sound as his whole body doubled over, chest contracting violently like something inside him was clawing its way out. A strange, bitter taste bloomed on his tongue—like metal and crushed petals, sour and sweet all at once.
He spat.
And froze.
A single petal—delicate, paper-thin—floated in the water before circling the drain.
It was the softest shade of pink, almost translucent, tinged faintly with blood.
His breath caught.
No. No, no, no.
He stared at it, paralyzed, the world narrowing to that one impossible image. For a moment, his brain couldn’t catch up. It was a petal. In his mouth. That had come from inside him.
Hanahaki.
He’d read about it once—by accident, years ago—while researching rare diseases for a biology project. It sounded like something out of a storybook. A disease born of unrequited love, where flowers grew in the lungs of the afflicted, feeding off their silence. Romantic. Poetic. Impossible.
But the petals remained.
And then another came, fluttering softly onto the sink like a confession.
Sieun’s heart pounded against his ribs as the reality of it anchored into him, heavy and unrelenting. His legs gave out, and he sank to the cold bathroom floor, the slick tile unforgiving beneath his knees. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, breathing shallowly.
It wasn’t possible.
It couldn’t be.
He didn’t love anyone like that.
He didn’t—
…No.
He closed his eyes, jaw tightening. Of course he did.
Suho.
The name came like a whisper and a wound all at once.
And with it, memory.
The warmth of Suho’s laughter echoing in the stairwell, the glint of light in his eyes when he talked about things he loved—stars, soccer, summer storms. The way he always leaned in a little too close when they studied together. The way he smiled when he saw Sieun waiting at the school gate, like it was the best part of his day.
It had been easy to ignore, to tuck away beneath layers of schoolwork and cold logic. Sieun had been careful. Distant. He never let himself feel too much. But feelings don’t ask for permission. They bloom slowly, quietly, until one day you wake up choking on flowers.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur.
Sieun didn’t eat breakfast. He barely remembered brushing his teeth or putting on his uniform. His hands moved on autopilot, buttoning the crisp white shirt, smoothing down the pleats of his pants. The navy blazer felt heavier than usual, like it knew what he was hiding underneath it. His mind was elsewhere, looping the same few moments like a glitching tape—coughing, the petal, Suho’s smile.
The silence was a comfort. His father had already left for work. No clatter of dishes, no questions asked across the breakfast table. Just the creak of floorboards and the ticking of the hallway clock.
He didn’t have to pretend he was fine.
He wasn’t sure he could.
By the time he stepped outside, the sun was just beginning to rise, casting a faint orange over the rooftops. Frost kissed the edges of the grass, and the sky blushed with the first hints of morning light. His breath fogged in the air like smoke. He pulled his scarf higher, not for the cold but to muffle any sound if the coughing returned.
Headphones in. No music playing.
He needed the world to leave him alone today.
But the world had other plans.
“Morning,” Suho called from behind him, slightly out of breath.
Sieun didn’t stop walking. Didn’t turn.
Suho caught up easily. He always did.
“Are you really listening to anything, or just trying to avoid people again?”
Sieun kept his gaze forward. “You already know.”
Suho grinned, bumping his shoulder lightly. “I admire your dedication to antisocial behavior. Very consistent.”
Sieun didn’t answer, not with words. He gave the smallest nod—one Suho would recognize as his version of a laugh. But it took effort today. Every step felt heavy, every breath shallow. The silence between them, once so comfortable, pressed around him like cotton stuffed into his lungs.
He could still see that petal. Still taste the bitterness on his tongue.
“You okay?” Suho asked suddenly. “You’re quieter than usual.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“This is extra quiet.”
Sieun didn’t answer.
If he opened his mouth too much, he wasn’t sure what would come out.
School passed like a dream underwater. Distant voices, dull chalk against the board, the rustle of papers and shuffling of feet. The bell between classes felt jarring, like a siren in fog. Sieun sat in his usual spot by the window, second from the back, the morning sun warming his cheek through the glass. Outside, students ran across the yard, their laughter a distant murmur.
His mind was far from equations and literature.
He could feel the petals inside him.
It wasn’t constant—yet—but they lingered, like the first signs of a fever. A faint pressure in his chest, a tickle at the back of his throat that made him swallow more often than usual. Every time he felt it, he tensed. Feared another cough. Another flower.
He pressed the back of his hand to his lips during class, just in case.
A note slid onto his desk, folded into a lopsided star.
"Hangout after lunch?"
The handwriting was familiar. Rounded. Easygoing.
Sieun didn’t write a reply. He turned slightly, catching Suho’s eye, and nodded once.
Suho beamed.
Sieun looked away.
His chest ached.
Between classes, Sieun ducked into the restroom, locking himself in a stall. He leaned his forehead against the cool door, breathing slowly through his nose. He counted the tiles on the floor. Focused on the hum of the overhead light. Anything but the fear clawing up his throat.
He opened his palm.
Two petals from earlier were still crumpled there.
He flushed them before anyone could see.
Lunchtime brought no relief.
They sat on the steps near the library like they always did—Suho with a milk carton and a half-eaten sandwich, Sieun with a tupperware of untouched rice and kimchi his mom had packed. The bento was still warm when he opened it, steam rising like the ghost of a memory. But it smelled too strong. The thought of eating made his stomach twist.
He hadn’t touched it.
“You seriously aren’t eating?”
“Not hungry.”
Suho frowned. “You skipped breakfast too. That’s not healthy, you know.”
Sieun said nothing.
“Also, I’m pretty sure you’re sick.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been coughing.”
Sieun’s fingers clenched tightly around his drink.
“It’s probably dust,” he said flatly.
Suho raised an eyebrow. “You’re allergic to school now?”
That almost made Sieun smile.
Almost.
But just then, a sudden wave of pressure built behind his sternum, sharp and unexpected. He stiffened, dropping his gaze to his knees.
Not here.
Not now.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to swallow hard. His eyes watered. For a moment, he thought he could hold it back. Control it.
But he couldn’t.
He turned away quickly and coughed once—short, dry. The sound seemed harmless. Normal.
Except for the petal.
It fluttered softly into his palm, hidden between his curled fingers. He kept his hand tight, heart racing.
Suho was still talking, distracted by his phone. He didn’t notice.
Sieun waited until Suho wasn’t looking, then carefully slid the petal into his coat pocket.
His pulse didn’t settle for the rest of the day.
The hours dragged. He sat through class like a ghost occupying a desk, responding only when called. His teachers didn’t press him—he was quiet, yes, but he always had been. No one noticed anything wrong.
But something was.
That night, he stood over the bathroom sink again.
This time, he didn’t pretend it was something else.
When the coughing started, he didn’t try to suppress it. He leaned forward and let it come, bracing himself. His ribs burned. His throat felt raw, torn open from the inside. It was nothing like a normal cold. It was something far worse.
Petals poured from his mouth—half a dozen, maybe more.
They were beautiful. Frighteningly so. Blush-colored with fine veining, like they’d been painted by hand. Some were tinged red, small streaks of blood staining the delicate tissue.
He stared at them in the basin, a trembling hand gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself.
His vision swam. His breath came too shallow. For a moment, he thought he might collapse.
But then he caught his reflection in the mirror—pale, sweat-slicked, eyes wide.
And in that reflection, he didn’t look scared.
He looked broken.
How long had he been in love with Suho?
He didn’t know the exact moment. There had been no fireworks, no dramatic realization. Just a gradual ache that had deepened over time—small things, ordinary things. The way Suho remembered to save him a seat. The way his voice lit up when they talked about space, or soccer, or dumb dreams. The way he made everything feel easy when life felt like it had sharp edges.
And now it was too late.
Sieun covered the petals with a towel and sat on the edge of the tub.
He couldn’t tell Suho.
If he did, and Suho didn’t feel the same—this would kill him anyway.
If he stayed silent—well, he’d already started dying.
Either way, there was no way out that didn’t hurt.
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
The only sound in the room was the low buzz of the light and the slow, steady beat of his own heart.