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The waiting room is beige with a dark brown carpet, the kind that has either always been that color or is that color as a result of years of use. There are paintings (ironically) of flowers on the walls, and potted plants stationed randomly between the chairs. A receptionist sits behind a counter, typing on a computer and answering the phone when it rings. Aside from her, there are seven people scattered about the room.
Taehyung is sitting by the door to the doctor’s office, flipping through a back issue of Vogue he’s already seen, thinking of other things. He doesn’t feel any different; just the same old Taehyung. He’d been having coughing fits, hadn’t noticed any petals or blood, but his general practitioner noticed some flora-like images on the precautionary x-rays and made him book an appointment right away. Taehyung had heard of Hanahaki disease, of course, had a friend of a friend who’d suffered from it, but for the life of him, there wasn’t a one-sided love in his life that he could think of.
When the nurse calls his name he’s surprised to find that he’s nearly the last person in the waiting room. He crosses the space, smiling politely at the nurse as he follows her through the maze of hallways to one of the private rooms.
“How long have you been experiencing symptoms?” she asks without looking up from the clipboard.
Taehyung opens his mouth to reply but pauses before he can speak, reaching his fingers into his mouth and extracting a daffodil petal that’s a brilliant shade of yellow. It shocks him. It’s his first petal and it’s so beautiful. No one ever talks about how beautiful the petals are… With his eyes still wide and his heart suddenly hammering in his chest he replies, “About a week.”
The nurse raises her eyebrows and says, “Is it just the petals? No blood?”
Taehyung shakes his head, “Nope. And just the one petal.” He’s still holding it in his hand, cradling it like a baby bird, as though it might fly away. It’s proof of something—the disease, of course, but something else. He just can’t place it. He slips it into the pocket of his shirt gently and looks up to find the nurse staring at him questioningly.
Taehyung smiles sheepishly and the nurse shrugs, telling him that the doctor will be in soon. When the door clicks shut, Taehyung relaxes, breathing deeply. He swings his legs back and forth from his high vantage point, scowling as his brain goes back to the puzzle.
He goes through every person he knows (men and women, older and younger, close friends and acquaintances), still nothing. He’s sorting through various one night stands when the doctor comes in.
“Everything alright?” she says when she sees Taehyung’s expression.
“Huh?” he asks, cocking his head at her before realizing, “Oh, um.” He hesitates, unsure of how to phrase this, “It’s just…doesn’t Hanahaki disease manifest from unrequited love?”
“Yes, that’s right,” the doctor says, sitting on a stool and looking up from his file.
“But, I don’t…love anyone.” He winces as he says the words because they sound colder than he intends. He just means that…unrequited love, from what he’s heard, is the most painful thing a person can experience (actual Hanahaki disease aside). Taehyung doesn’t feel anything like that.
The doctor raises her eyebrows, “Well,” she says, closing his file and folding her hands across her lap diplomatically, “this would be the first documented case of Hanahaki without a love interest.”
Taehyung’s shock reads on his face, “Really?”
The doctor nods, “People have claimed, of course, to not have an unrequited love before. But it almost always turns out to be,” she pauses. She hates having to tell someone that they do in fact have an unrequited love; as if the Hanahaki disease wasn’t cruel enough, telling someone previously unaware that they have actually been in pain this whole time…it’s awful.
“What?” Taehyung asks, even though he’s pretty sure what her answer will be.
“Denial,” she sighs.
Taehyung breathes deeply, “Well then what am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” the doctor says, “surgery is an option. It’s so early on in the flora progression that there would be minimal risk, except for the obvious one: you’ll no longer love the person, will have no emotion toward them at all.”
“Sign me up,” he says, shrugging, “I already don’t feel it, clearly.”
The doctor keeps her gaze steady, “We do require a fourteen-day waiting period since this is your first appointment for the Hanahaki itself.” Taehyung nods along. She pauses for a long moment before adding, “And you might want to think more about who it is you might have feelings for.”
“I told you, I don’t—”
The doctor raises her hands to silence him, “I know. But oftentimes, people who claim to have no unrequited love that rush into surgery…they realize afterward who it was and lose a fundamental piece of their lives because of it.”
“But the patients don’t even care, right? Because they don’t have any emotion for that person?”
“That’s true,” the doctor concedes, “but it’s like the person has died. It fundamentally changes your life.” She stands up, turning to swipe a brochure from the counter and handing it to him, “Just think about it. We’ll make an appointment for two weeks, a follow-up, and then we can schedule the surgery.”
“Okay,” Taehyung whispers, glancing down at the brochure: Who Do I Love? Tracking Down the Source of Your Hanahaki Disease. He stands from the table and folds the brochure neatly, tucking it into the pocket of his pants and following the nurse through the maze of hallways again.
“Follow up,” the nurse says, craning her neck into the reception area. The receptionist nods and Taehyung leans against the counter to wait.
“Two weeks, is it?” the receptionist says.
“Yeah,” he nods, worrying his bottom lip before pulling out the brochure again. The picture on the front is of a man with a forlorn expression, a glowing picture of a flower (violets maybe?) in his throat. Taehyung frowns.
“Tuesday the 14th work?” the receptionist says, and Taehyung nods without looking up. She slides a reminder card across the counter to him and he takes it, eyes never drifting from the brochure, even as he leaves.
Taehyung’s feet take him there without his knowledge. He just looks up from the brochure and he’s standing in front of the gallery. There’s a tacky white neon sign that blinks in and out: Open. The windows have all been blacked out with heavy construction paper (he’s already seen the latest installation ‘Black Stars’ - every piece glows in the dark). Multiple copies of the same flyer have been pasted to the heavy metal door: BLACK STAR EXHIBITION NAOMI CRAWFORD THURSDAY — MONDAY.
It’s Monday.
Taehyung folds the brochure into his back pocket carefully and pushes through the metal door.
It’s dark. Melodic jazz is humming through the overhead speakers and it puts him at ease (he likes it better than the heavy metal they played when Jake Martinez held his instillation of decapitated dolls as a comment on beauty standards). There’s a small corner near reception lit by soft yellow candles.
Taehyung is still staring into the darkness when you call his name. You step out from behind the reception desk (which feels more like a shrine, what with all these candles) and are greeted with a wide, box-shaped smile shrouded in shadow.
“I was wondering if you’d stop by.” You wrap your hand around his wrist and tug him toward the counter, “I saved some snacks for you.”
His face lights up when he sees the various catered goodies you’ve kept hidden in a napkin amongst the candles. He holds it in his hand delicately and starts munching.
Silence. Or worse yet, jazz-filled silence. You want to say something but there doesn’t seem to be anything to fill the space. And Taehyung seems…distracted.
The phone rings harshly and even though it’s dark you can see Naomi glare at you like a demon in the dark. You hold your hands up to appease her and scurry around the desk. Naomi huffs when the phone rings a second time and you actually roll your eyes as you pick up the phone, “Bogo Sipda Art Gallery.”
Taehyung wanders off.
You can see him stall in front of a wide canvas covered in brown and black paint, pinpointed with tiny drops of glowing yellow. It’s called ‘Alone.’
“Sorry, sir, yes, I’m here. What was your question?”
Taehyung is still there when you approach to mark the painting with a red ‘sold’ sticker.
“Someday,” he says and his eyes aren’t here, they’re amongst the painted stars and fantasy clouds, “I’ll have a home filled with art.”
“I know.”
When he turns, his eyes have grounded again, but they’re still alight, glimmering in the low light like the Milky Way, “Do you?”
“Yes.”
You jump when the phone rings again and Naomi immediately screeches your name like you are single-handedly ruining the entire evening. Artists.
“Bogo Sipda Art Gallery.”
Taehyung wanders again.
You find him nearly two hours later, crouched at the end of the exhibit, the darkest point, pitch black but for a small, square canvas painted edge-to-edge in white glow-in-the-dark paint. It almost illuminates his face.
His fist is closed so tightly over the used up napkin that his knuckles have turned white. When he frowns it takes up his entire face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him frown before; neutral or stoic, yes, when considering a piece of artwork, but never such a blatant display of unhappiness. Not here.
“I can take that,” you say, holding your hand out for the napkin.
Instead, he slides a worn-out brochure into your palm. He holds the napkin between his knees and begins to tear it up, the soft white pieces fluttering to the ground.
Your eyes scan the brochure. “Hanahaki disease?”
He shrugs. Passive aggressively.
“Do you have Hanahaki disease?”
He shrugs again.
Figures.
You sit beside him on the bench. “Have you told anyone?”
He shrugs then adds, “You.”
You know why he’s telling you. You’re not real friends. Telling his real friends would make it real, would mean having to face it and make decisions about it. Telling you…an acquaintance…that’s safer. But it does feel like a needle in your spine.
He sits up straight and leans against the back of the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him and tossing the rest of the napkin harshly. As if just to defy him, it flutters to the ground in mid-air. “I don’t love anyone.”
You snort. You’d argue that he loves too much, everything too much all the time. The sky and the birds and the trees and art and his friends and his life. Love, love, love. As if he just has to dip a hand in to sprinkle it on top of everything.
He actually smiles at your response. “I’m not in love with anyone.”
You don’t believe this either. You’re not sure how Hanahaki disease works but you’re pretty sure the fundamental, unavoidable cause is being in love with someone.
“I know that’s impossible,” he sighs and you wonder how he’s reading your thoughts.
You shrug then, “Maybe your subconscious knows something you don’t.”
“How can I be in love without knowing I’m in love?” he huffs, “I love love.”
You shrug. Again. And wonder how much of a conversation can actually be shrugs. “The brain avoids pain…tries to protect you from pain.”
“And gives me Hanahaki disease instead?”
Anyone else would have scoffed that sentence or laced it with anger and bitterness like a martini with too much gin. But Taehyung says it like a boy in Algebra class presented with a problem he hasn’t studied for, something he hasn’t learned yet. His voice is pure confusion and innocent wondering.
“The brain is the only thing to ever truly name itself.”
He laughs so loudly it tears a hole right through your chest.
You don’t see him for three days after that. Naomi’s exhibition ends (she sold almost all of her paintings, a new record for the gallery) and you’re back to stocking one-offs from various local artists. When you put up the sketch Taehyung drew three years ago (not in the best spot, a little nearer to the back than you would like) your boss scoffs at you; he doesn’t understand why you’re so attached to it, why you insist on putting it up between installations when no one’s shown an interest in it.
You think it’s the closest you’ll ever get to confessing. It’s like your own silent love letter that Taehyung is deaf to. It feels both like a security blanket and a knife in the chest.
When he does come in he brings the smell of french fries with him. He’s carrying a large street vendor plate of them (smothered in cheese and bits of bacon). He walks right by the handsome new hire flipping through a high-brow art magazine at the front desk and walks the gallery maze until he finds you.
“Thanks, Taki.” You’re smiling up at the aging Japanese man atop the ladder, screwing in a light bulb over an abstract painting the size of a flatscreen TV. But both you and Taki freeze when the smell of fries wafts in your direction.
Taehyung’s face transforms into a smile painted with recognition. “Hungry?”
“Starved.”
Two minutes later (after Tae gave Taki some fries and you struggled through an introduction between Cole The Receptionist and Taehyung), you’re perched on the bench outside, picking gingerly at the cheesy-fries with your fingers.
“How are you feeling?”
Taehyung shrugs, “Still in love, I guess.” He leans against the brick wall behind the bench and stretches his arms above his head, “But I told some more people… and I’ll have the surgery.”
You try not to let your surprise electrocute you and turn you stiff, you fight to keep from looking at him like he’s crazy. “You will?” Your voice comes out even.
He picks up the last fry and offers it to you. “I don’t even know who I love…what’s there to miss?”
You lean forward and bite the fry, leaning back when Taehyung releases it. You chew slowly and swallow. “You aren’t scared?”
This stumps him. Taehyung hadn’t even thought that far. “Scared of what?”
You take a deep breath and lean against the wall, too, watching the orange sun sink behind the familiar outline of the buildings downtown. “Of losing something.”
Taehyung doesn’t think he is, but there’s a flicker. It’s like the last bit of light before a candle extinguishes. That’s his fear.
He spends all day thinking about what you said. He’s in a daze as he walks the three blocks back to his apartment (the one he shares with Minho and Hyungsik and Seojoon). He ignores the elderly lady that sells churros from a cart (and sneaks him free, extra-crispy bits); he ignores the homeless man he chats with a couple minutes every day before handing him a couple of bucks; he even ignores the sweet woman and her two kids that live above him. None of these people, though, are at all perturbed by this daze. That’s Taehyung; sometimes he’s a bright ball of uncontrollable light and sometimes he’s the early morning fog that wraps around the trees.
When he makes it up to the apartment, all three roommates are in the living room. Minho is typing quickly on a laptop perched on his knees and ignoring the drama playing on the television. Hyungsik is absorbed in it, dropping pieces of popcorn in his distraction. Seojoon is fighting with his partner via text.
They all look up when he unlocks the door, pausing to toe-off his shoes in the entryway before drifting down the hallway.
“Hey,” Seojoon says, grateful to look away from his phone, “how was the gallery? Anything good?”
“Yeah,” Minho says, already chuckling at his own joke, “did she put up that sketch of yours again?”
When he doesn’t respond (or rather, when he doesn’t immediately start gushing about the pieces of artwork and how nice they are to put his on display after all this time, how nice you are in general), they look closer. The normally bright and vibrant Kim Taehyung seems diminished, just a shade of his usual self.
“What’s going on?” Hyungsik asks, pausing the drama and turning to face him.
Taehyung side-steps the couch and then moves to sit between them, chewing on his bottom lip. He takes one of the decorative pillows Hyungsik picked out (this one is pink with a festive llama embroidered on it) and hugs it to his chest.
“Is this about the Hanahaki?” Seojoon says quietly, leaning over to squeeze Taehyung’s knee, “I thought you had decided to have the surgery.”
Taehyung nods and, inexplicably, there are tears in his eyes.
“What happened?” Minho asks quietly.
He looks up and everything’s blurry. The tears. “What if I lose something?”
“Lose…something?”
“Something I don’t know I have now.” His voice breaks on the last few syllables and he hides his face in the pillow. The flicker of fear you’d set alight in his chest has grown into a forest fire, it’s consumed him.
They share a concerned look over his head and Hyungsik rubs soothing circles into his back. Seojoon ruffles his hair. “Do you think you’re going to lose something?”
“I don’t know,” Taehyung sniffles, “It feels like I will now.”
“Why?”
“She and I…” he’s talking about you, they already know, he doesn’t have to clarify, “we were just talking and she said that. She asked me ‘what if I lose something’ and…” Taehyung looks up and his eyes are red. He hits his chest harshly, “What if she’s right?” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
The three others all have the same thought. It’s not so much what was said but who said it.
“Tae,” Minho starts. Both Hyungsik and Seojoon look at him desperately over the younger boy’s head, don’t their expressions say. But Minho knows he has to. “What about…her?”
Taehyung rubs his eyes and sits up straight. He always feels a bit saner when talking about you; a bit safer and like things are for-sure. He tilts his head to the side.
Hyungsik sighs, giving in, “Don’t you think maybe…it’s her? Don’t you love her?”
“What?”
Seojoon closes his eyes and prays for patience. “You’re always talking about her, Tae. And when you brought us to that exhibition last month, to introduce us…”
“You’ve never looked so happy,” Hyungsik finishes.
“Well, of course, I love her,” Taehyung says. His words are fact and he says them like they’ve been carved into stone, but his brow is still knit in confusion.
“Then don’t you think, maybe, she’s your unrequited love?”
Taehyung shakes his head, “No. I’m not…it’s not…like that. I don’t…why are you—” He gets up in one quick motion like it’s the only way his newfound nervous energy can be released. He walks out of the room quickly, stopping to repeat, “It’s not like that,” before disappearing.
This time when his three roommates share a look they agree on this: Taehyung is in denial. And it’s going to kill him.
When Taehyung wakes up the next morning he stays in bed. His eyes open to the sunlight through his window and he rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He switches off the alarm on his phone without looking and counts the imperfections in the ceiling plaster. He listens to each of his roommates as they go about their mornings.
Hyungsik hogs the bathroom, Minho berates him for it. Seojoon pads around the apartment quietly and Taehyung knows that he’s just staying out of the younger two’s way, sipping his coffee and ducking in and out of the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom. He hears Hyungsik grab an apple and his keys off the counter before rushing out. He hears Minho dripping from his shower as he meanders back to his bedroom. He hears them all leave, slowly, one by one.
Then he climbs out of bed, walks across the hall to the bathroom, kneels over the toilet and spits the flower petals he’s been holding on his tongue into the bowl. When he looks in the mirror he’s paler and his teeth are stained pink. And he’s sad. He tries to brush his teeth but he keeps having to stop for the flower petals.
He calls out of work and skips classes. He climbs back into bed with a trash can to vomit into.
You spend nearly a full week walking in crazed, frantic circles in the art gallery, waiting for Taehyung to come in. He’s never gone more than a few days without stopping by, not without telling you first.
I’ll just have the surgery.
Five words. Like ice in your veins.
His number, which he wrote on a donut shop napkin (the one around the corner that sells the sugary, cinnamon covered ones he loves so much), and which you never felt you were allowed to use, finally gets dusted off. You open a message and type the first thing that comes to mind.
Did you have the surgery?
Sorry…that was blunt
I just…did you?
This is a stupid decision.
You’ve been to Taehyung’s apartment once before. Last Halloween he invited you to the party he and his roommates were throwing. Then, like now, you stood on the sidewalk across the street and stared up at the window you imagined to be his with a feeling of nauseous dread crouching in your stomach.
On that day, you had turned (perfectly crafted Tinker Bell costume and all) and left, texting him a half-hearted excuse and folding into your couch with a pint of ice cream.
Today, you swallow the nauseous feeling and plunge forward.
You slip inside behind a resident, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button for the fourth floor. You feel pathetic for having that information memorized, despite not even having attended the party a year ago.
You know which apartment is his because there’s a faint pencil sketch on the faded red wallpaper beside the door of Taehyung and his three roommates. You would be able to recognize him from the sketch, but you mostly know this because after he’d done it (when he was slightly tipsy after his exams last semester), he’d shown you a picture on his phone proudly.
You trace the drawing softly, stalling as you muster the courage to knock on the door.
But you don’t get the chance. Someone sidles up next to you at the door. He jingles his keys and jimmies it into the lock. He says your name with a smile in his voice.
“I’m Seojoon,” he smiles, “Want to come inside?” He pauses in the doorway and adds, “You’re here to see Taehyung, right?”
You follow him inside, bowing politely at the two other men lounging in the living room, but freezing when you see Taehyung turn the corner. He freezes, too.
“What—?” Taehyung looks between his roommates and you, “What are you doing here?”
You feel winded looking at him. He’s wearing a large, faded baby blue t-shirt and loose flowing pants. There’s a kimchi stain on the collar of his shirt. His hair is oily and disheveled. His lips are chapped and his cheeks have drained of color, his whole face has.
He looks…wrong. That isn’t the right word but it’s the only one you can come up with.
The Taehyung you’re used to has the sun beneath his skin and so many easy smiles that they fill you up inside. He’s frowning now.
“I, um—” You fumble for an excuse but your mouth is dry and your brain is wringing. You feel like a dishcloth being twisted in his hands. You squeeze out a sentence, “Did you have the surgery?”
His eyes dart away from you but you can’t look away. Your eyes have gone wide like saucers, trying to take in every detail of him. Everything’s slightly askew.
“No.” It’s not him who answers but one of his roommates; Hyungsik, you think.
Taehyung looks at him like shut up.
Your knees almost give out you’re so relieved. Not so much, maybe, because you didn’t want him to have the surgery but because you wanted to be there with him, for him. You wanted to hold his hand and fetch him water and make sure he was alright.
And maybe they almost give out a little, too, because you’re afraid. You’re afraid that whatever they cut out in surgery a piece of it will be you. Maybe not you directly—you aren’t the flower—but what if you’re a side fixture? What if you’re the painting beside the painting he’s cutting out and by consequence he never sees again?
Now Taehyung looks at you like what the hell.
You can stand straighter now, more composed now that you’re carrying the information you came for. You fold your arms around your stomach and worry your lips together, “I was worried.”
Now he looks at you like your answer to his next question is the only answer in the universe. “Worried about me?” In his eyes, you see that he’s teetering on the edge of hope and despair.
It’s your turn to look at him like what the hell.
“Of course. You.”
Then, because you’re a little lost in the galaxies beneath his eyes, you reach forward and put your palm on his chest. You feel his breath hike and you almost feel something else, the hint of growth, of something else in his lungs. But you press harder because you can’t say the words aloud, you have trained yourself not to.
But he seems to understand. “I love you,” he says, softly and with blood on his lips.
You fist his shirt in your hand and press your lips to his. You kiss the blood, the flowers, and the fear away.