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It’s a warm Mallorca morning. The flitting chirps of songbirds that fill the air are accompanied by the soft thrapping of Will’s footsteps on the outdoor kitchen’s wooden deck. He approaches the group with an easy smile as Thabi follows in tow, their hands intertwined as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
(And maybe it is.)
The islanders greet the two chirpily, save for MC, who grants them a weak smile as she looks up from her breakfast. After an exchange of pleasantries, Will and Thabi descend into the barstools and chat idly over their meal. Their plates are decorated with a colourful array of sliced fruit arranged in a vibrant rainbow.
MC’s food is laughably sad in comparison; the egg whites of her sunny side up coagulating to form a noticeable frown, yolk split and bleeding into the china like golden tears.
You and me both , she thinks, as the group disperse off into the wider villa. Angie’s the first to notice, eyeing MC askance as she remains seated in the kitchen. The older girl sidles up next to her, tapping on the counter in front of her to seize her attention.
“You good, love?”
MC nods unconvincingly. Angie almost rolls her eyes. Ever the pushover, MC gives in, welcoming her companion into the recesses of her mind. She rambles on about her arrival, her first dance, the rooftop – everything that made her feel special . She recounts the bouts of casual affection Will has provided her; the forehead kisses, the whisperings in each other’s ears, each time her cheeks flushed, each time becoming steadily apparent he meant nothing more than a friendly gesture.
“I know it’s not my place to ‘stake my claim’ or whatever, and I’m not going to do that. But…”
“Still hurts?”
“Still hurts.”
The conversation makes its natural end. Angie offers to stay, but MC waves her off with the dubious claim that she’s fine. Albeit reluctant, Angie obeys, not without a second glance back in case she changes her mind.
Even with her line of sight trained on the food in front of her, her breath involuntarily hitches at the faint sound of Thabi’s signature giggle, and MC pretends she doesn’t wish it were further away. Her head raises ever so slightly, enough to play off her inconspicuous spying should she be caught unsuspectingly.
She catalogues every subtle expression Will makes. A small smile finds its way tugging at her lips as he grins, eyes scrunched into dainty crescent moons. Part of her is curious on what could possibly be so amusing for him to react this way, and she briefly entertains playing out several scenarios in her head. But for now, she’s content with simply watching, ignoring the looming, apprehensive dread clouding her conscience.
She looks away before they notice, thinking back to the events leading up to now.
“It’d actually be pretty nice if Thabi picked me at the recoupling.”
Will doesn’t say much else, but he doesn’t need to. They wait patiently for their companion’s reply, gazing with cat-like curiosity.
“...The recoupling’s tonight,” MC says, rather belatedly. Will nods.
“I understand. I thought I should say something now, rather than… you know. Dropping it on you when we’re all standing up there.”
It’s MC’s turn to nod, however there’s a sinking, foreign feeling deep in her chest she can’t quite place. Will bids her goodbye before paddling his lilo away and climbing out, disappearing as fast as he’d appeared. She watches the water ripple in their absence, contemplating her next course of action.
(I’ll repeat your name over and over with the hope you’ll mean less to me with each breath.
Will. Will. Will.)
The mantra repeats deafeningly in her mind all the way ‘til the evening, where it occupies her thoughts even when her head hits the pillow. Their unmistakable figure fades into view as they collect their bedding, heading out to join Thabi on the other side of the room.
MC painstakingly watches them depart.
(Will you ever look at me the same way?)
Being an early riser is both a blessing and a curse.
The Spanish sunrise is a lovely sight, far easier on the eyes than their artificial counterpart of ITV’s harsh studio lights. Even so, not even the pinky-orange canvas of sky is enough to distract from the lingering emptiness beside her. MC extends an arm and feels nothing but coldness, reminded of the happenings of the night before. After recoupling with James, she’d opted to sleep on the single’s bed, too despondent to share with anyone other than them.
She slinks away to the dressing room to occupy herself with something productive. With a hair curler in hand, MC tries to focus on her reflection but is haunted by the itching thought at the back of her mind. There’s an unfamiliar tingling that she attempts to ignore as she winds her locks around the curling wand, stone faced.
Something blooms inside of her – something ugly and wronged and red. She drops the wand and rushes to the bathroom, passing by an alarmed James with a hand over her mouth, praying she doesn’t spew all over the tiling like a helpless, little thing.
Fortunately, the floor is safe. MC bends over the toilet bowl and lets out a few chesty coughs. A flurry of yellow and white petals escape from her lips, falling like autumn leaves into the water.
“Are you alright in there, MC?” he asks, worry laced within his tone. MC opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by another wave of coughs.
She’s left the door unlocked, so James takes it upon himself to open it. He’s met with her petite, convulsing figure slumped over the porcelain as she continues dry heaving.
Before he can turn the corner and scream for help, MC reaches out and grips his leg with surprising force, urging him to stay.
“Don’t,” she instructs indisposedly. Her hold quickly loosens. “I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not,” he retorts, but doesn’t press further as MC adamantly shakes her head. A stray petal glides gracefully towards his foot, which he picks up and examines carefully.
“Camellia,” he says aloud, and MC raises her head. James’ eyes widen in haste realisation.
“What does that mean?”
James ignores her, gathering more of the petals, turning them over in his hands. Growing increasingly annoyed, MC finds the strength to stand up, using the wall for support. She grabs his wrist with more exertion than intended, forcing him to look back at her.
“What is it, James?”
He drops the collection and they flutter away, littering the ground. From behind his blue rimmed spectacles, he observes the deathly pallor of her face, her bloodshot eyes, the trickle of crimson trailing down her chin. The sight of her seemingly knocks the words out of him – he opens his mouth, but no sound is spoken.
After a pregnant pause, he provides a much needed elaboration.
Hanahaki: a disease of the lungs, only fatal if the victim allows it to be. Curable through reciprocation or a surgical procedure, but as the flowers go, so do their romantic feelings.
“It’s something I’ve only ever read in books,” he explains. “But to see it happening right in front of me…”
There’s a brief silence as the two ponder.
“What do they mean?”
James pauses to think.
“Yellow for longing. White for waiting,” he finally answers, with a murmur. MC offers him a wry smile. There’s no need to specify who, as if the recipient of her endearment wasn’t blaringly obvious. She thanks him, and that should be the end of it.
Except she feels the resurge of an unwelcome tickle at the back of her throat as it constricts; eyes glassy with tears.
Am I having a heart attack?
She doubles over once more, retching into the bowl, gripping the sides for stability. Her heart lurches in sync with her stomach as it drums a loud cacophony in her ears. James immediately drops to her side, rubbing her back in slow, ministrating circles.
Quieter still, am I going to die?
The next few nights are suffered in silence. Midnight bathroom trips are a frequency, conveniently blamed on a weak bladder – not entirely untrue – and a penchant for drinking.
It’d be easier if Thabi was the devil incarnate, and her friendly front was all it was – a facade. But she is the epitome of love and laughter and light, and MC was kidding herself if she were to say otherwise.
She always greeted the islanders a good morning and a good night, and was quick to diffuse any arguments before vitriolic insults could be thrown. Something shy of an angel; living proof that there was still hope for humanity.
“Is everything okay, MC?” she inquires one afternoon. “I could ask the producers for some medicine, that cough sounds pretty serious. I hope you feel better soon!”
How could she hate a soul as sweet as hers?
Production eventually upholds their duty of care policies and offers MC to sit out the next challenge. Inklings of suspicion arouse between the islanders, but MC is quick to dispel their worries, plastering her usual saccharine smile on her face.
It’s just a cold. Allergies. I always get sick this time of year.
The lies slip out with uncomfortable ease, and as the days drone on, MC’s unsure if she can keep it up any longer.
“You’ve got to tell someone,” James urges one evening. MC blanches at the thought.
“Does Angie know?”
MC doesn’t reply.
He takes her silence as tacit confirmation, re-emphasising his point firmly, but within boundaries. She knows he’s right. He knows he’s right.
She pulls out a red petal from her pocket, slick with crimson and saliva. It’s hard to discern where the blood ends and the petal begins. James doesn’t need any explanation as he takes the petal from her, studying it closely.
“Red camellia,” he begins.
“...You’re in love. Perishing with grace.”
MC sighs. It’s hard to speak, hard to even breathe. Thorny vines curl around her organs and travel up her oesophagus and James’ confirmation only seems to worsen things; her throat feels dryer, her mind foggier, her eyesight blurrier.
Still, she pulls through, smothering her emotions until they reach their zenith and she can no longer keep up the charade.
The firepit flickers invitingly, and MC zeroes in on its flames, mirroring the burning indignation inside of her. Yet another recoupling has sprung upon them. Thankfully, James had proposed a friendship couple arrangement for the time being, which MC gratefully accepts.
Will’s the next to receive a text and they rise from their seat with distinct eagerness. MC doesn’t dare meet his eye.
“I know I'm not the easiest person to be around. I'm flighty, I'm non-committal, and I often fall asleep in the middle of conversations. I'm trying to work on all this stuff…”
She wrangles the hopeful optimism that arises.
“But there's one person who always makes me feel like I want to do better. And that person is…”
She holds her breath in anticipation.
“Thabi.”
MC claps politely as the girl in question gasps in delight. They exchange a hug before she dashes off to Will’s side, giving him a shy kiss on the cheek. In MC’s periphery, Angie shoots her a knowing look.
James finally stands up, not waiting for the sound of his phone, sending MC a mellow smile. Before he can make his speech, the alarmed voices of the other islanders ring out as she suddenly drops to the ground.
Sanguine fluid spills from her mouth and onto the deck, seeping through the wooden floorboards, accompanied by camellias in full bloom. This is the climax, the final crescendo, bared for naked display for the entire villa to watch in horror.
Angie and James frantically leap to MC’s side. Everyone stands in silence as she wheezes out more petals, blood soaked leaves, remnants of stems and thorns – tangible evidence of how the agony of unrequited love is literally consuming every fibre of her being.
There’s a frenzy of panic as production sends paramedics onto the scene. MC feels herself being lifted onto a stretcher and fights the urge to pass out, hyperfocusing on the taste of metallic coating her interior.
She stops coughing, and her breathing is staggered but stable, maintaining the delusional hope that this was all just a dream; that she’d wake up the next day at Will’s side and he’d bring her a cup of coffee to start the morning and everything is relaxed and easygoing and right .
Her eyes meet his and for a split second she believes in her own grandeur. The illusion soon dissipates once she sees Thabi next to them, hands clasped over her mouth in an amalgamation of shock and fear.
MC’s vision glosses over and their bodies soon coalesce into blurry figures, incomprehensible from the environment around them. Her heart pounds deftly in her ears as she coughs up a final flower, though this time it’s not the infamous camellia.
Lost memory.
Abandonment.
Never to meet again.
She picks up the red spider lily and rolls it through her fingers, blinking away her tears.
“If Will doesn’t return your feelings, and you don’t want to follow through with the procedure…” James concludes, reluctant to continue his sentence.
“Die,” MC finishes solemnly. “I will die.”
The fog clears and she can see him again. They’re eyeing the lily in her hands with the same woeful gaze, and she wonders if they’re thinking things over just as she. His mouth is moving, but she can’t hear him over the blaring ambulance siren and clamorous din of paramedics speaking in her ears.
(Will. Will. Will.)
MC’s conscious enough to feel him squeeze her hand before she’s whisked away into the vehicle. The door clicks shut and she allows herself the galvanising, sedulous pleasure of memorising his face, his eyes, his touch, his entire existence – before destiny’s cruel hands eventually tear it away from her.
(Will I remain in your memory, even when you inevitably fade from mine?)