Chapter Text
Eternal love doesn't exist, and there is no such thing as loving someone unconditionally.
You heard once that love was like a burning flame, it would either burn out after years of being together, or turn into a comforting, quiet warmth rather than fireworks. Some even claimed that their love was still as fiery as they'd first met after decades of being together.
As a hopeless romantic, of course you'd hope for a timeless love that stayed the same. After never being cherished, you prayed that at least there would be one person in your life who loved you, who chose you first.
It was very idealistic, you admit, maybe nothing more than a pipe dream.
That was what you had thought before meeting your now-husband Jean, who made it seem like loving you was as easy as breathing, and you felt the same way about him.
It started gradually, when Jean was too busy to eat dinner together. Once was fine, but you noticed it becoming more frequent.
Jean: Go ahead and eat without me
Jean: I'll be home late
You read the text from your phone and sighed, typing a response and looked up at his empty seat in front of you.
Gradually, he didn't spend time with you on the weekends anymore.
“You deserve to rest,” you said from the doorframe of his office.
“I'll be fine, I'm just catching up on some things,” Jean replied, eyes never leaving his computer as he typed away like a robot.
Turned into—
“I made coffee for you.”
“Thanks.”
Then—
"I brought dinner for you.”
And there were no more replies.
Like a tap losing water, the love flowing down narrowed into a thin line, then into drops, before ceasing completely.
And like a frog in a pot full of gradually boiling water, you failed to notice the change of temperature until it hurt you. Although, the only reason why the frogs didn't hop out of the pot was because they were lobotomized, which of course hindered their abilities. You, however, really had no excuse.
There would always be something wrong with your body. You couldn't remember a time when you didn't have some sort of medical visit for any reason. It almost felt like there was a yearly comeback of some sort of injury.
So when flower petals floated in water dyed with red swirls in the toilet bowl, you couldn't have been more surprised. Bleeding hearts, how ironic.
Hanahaki was a chronic hereditary disease you had since you were young. There was no medical cure except surgical removal— which you didn't want to risk. Other than that, there were medicines that helped to relieve the symptoms, also prevention methods such as romantic abstinence.
The flare ups were horrible.
You stayed up late, the feeling of needles inside your lungs accompanying you as you were looking up your symptoms on the internet.
Jean's spot on the bed was empty, the slight dent in his shape was the only evidence that he used to share this bed with you.
After clicking on many websites, forums, and videos, you reached a conclusion. There was a common answer for the stage you were in, and it was the one she dreaded the most—surgery.
This situation was all too familiar to you, but it didn't lessen the pain every time. You couldn't sleep, hyper aware of the uncomfortable, suffocating feeling of the vines attached to your lungs. It was only after crying, and being exhausted by it, that you finally succumbed to slumber.
Since that morning, you decided to not tell Jean. If he learned that you were becoming a burden, you feared how much faster he'd fall out of love with you.
You started to miss the mundane and domestic moments you had taken for granted once. It seemed small at the moment, when you were able to see him first thing when you opened your eyes, having idle conversations while he cooked breakfast as you waited at the counter, the dinner night out you had at least twice a month.
Now his only routine was to go straight to his office room after coming home at late hours into the night.
It worried you when he couldn't even send a text to let you know that he was coming home late, but not that you needed it now. Despite knowing that he would come home late, you still stayed up, making sure to hear the front door open.
But you were getting sick of waiting in worry every night, so much so that you decided to wait in the living room.
“You should be asleep.”
“I couldn't,” you shook your head.
“Are you okay?” At least he had the decency to pretend to care.
“I'm not okay.” You answered truthfully, and asked a question of your own, tone softening, “Why don't we ever have dinner together anymore?”
“You know why, I'm busy, that's all. It's nothing personal, don't worry about me.”
“How can I not be concerned? All you ever do these days is just sit at the office working nonstop,” you paused, waiting for him to explain himself or try to brush off your concerns.
Jean closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He then walked forward to embrace you in a tight hug, muttering, “You're right. I'm sorry for worrying you.”
You were pleasantly surprised, and you missed the warmth of his embrace. You hugged him back, digging your chin into his shoulder. “I miss you.”
From the other side, you didn't catch how his face contorted into a wry expression, his hesitant tone missed by your ears, “I…miss you too.”
Ignorantly bliss, your chest felt a little lighter as you sighed, leaning into his embrace and feeling the being in the presence of your beloved.
The next morning, Jean was already gone. But, you found notes waiting for you on the kitchen counter alongside the lunch he packed for you.
He texted you whenever he was on a break, telling you what lunch there was in the cafeteria, asking how things were on your end, and ending with saying how much he missed you.
He started to buy you small gifts; a new flower went into the vase on the dinner table, a box of your favourite chocolates, takeout from your favourite restaurant as a treat.
While it was the bare minimum, you couldn't be more happy when things started to feel like normal again.
His words were there, so were his gifts, and his notes, but the disease never lied. You could tell by the bloodied snapdragon petals looking back at you, and you stared back bitterly.
Jean lied. Maybe he didn't mean to, but his actions did not reflect what he was truly feeling. Maybe it did at first, but then it started to be another part of his routine, something to distract you enough to not notice that he wasn't there physically.
Some people wanted to rip their hearts out to numb the pain, while you wanted to literally rip it out, and it would numb the pain—the physical pain that came along with your illness, at least.
Were you really that hard to love? Or maybe, Jean had finally seen how much of a burden you were, his rose tinted glasses fading colour, and seeing the real you made him tired, distant. Maybe living with you has finally got to him, and he's become bored.
Either way, you should've known it was too good to be true.
One night, you woke up, violently coughing petals in your sleep. Fortunately, Jean wasn't home, so it was easier to clean up without suspicion. But after that, you slept in the guest bedroom, and Jean never even asked you why. Did he even notice you were absent from bed, or was he too tired to notice that your side was empty?
While you were washing out the bloodstains on the bathroom tiles, you started to think. Not that you liked to, but your mind wandered to your husband, trying to think of why he was like this.
If he's coming home late, staying at work, distancing himself from you, those were suspicious patterns, weren't they?
Maybe he was falling out of love with you because he was falling in love with someone else.
You needed answers, because the doubts were killing you, literally.
“What are you doing up this late?” Jean asked again, it was not so long ago that he was greeted with the sight of you in the living room.
“I was waiting for you,” you replied, standing up to go to him.
Jean sighed, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up, “I told you not to wait for me anymore.”
“Did you eat already?” you crossed your arms.
“Of course I did. What time is it right now?” His heart sank as he read the date on his lockscreen. It was a day past your anniversary due to midnight barely passing.
“What's going on?” you asked him for the truth.
Jean sighed, trying to walk past you—not even sparing you a glance. “I need some space.”
“I feel like I haven't seen you in so long already,” you turned around to see him walking up the stairs.
Jean paused, turning around when he was a few steps in, raising his arms up in defeat, “I'm working hard for you, isn't that enough?”
You took a few steps forward towards the stairs, one hand on the rail, “I don't need you to work hard, I want you to be here.”
“Well you can't have your cake and eat it too. If you want this comfortable life, I have to work hard for it.” Jean shrugged his shoulders, as if to make it seem that that was just how life was.
“I work just as hard as you do, but I also want to spend time with you.”
“These days, I don't,” he muttered, seemingly an accidental confession on his end, a slip of the tongue, thinking out loud.
You felt your heart shatter, or maybe the shards of glass were the thorns pricking inside your lungs. You sighed, voice defeated, “Do you not love me anymore?”
“Maybe,” Jean answered coldly, bluntly, worst of all—he didn't hesitate.
“Maybe? What does that mean?” your voice broke, but you still tried to face him.
“What do you think?” His eyes narrowed, the question asked in a defeated, annoyed, and sarcastic tone, golden eyes glaring at you.
Your lungs congested, you felt your throat being suffocated as you gasped, so you turned around to run towards the guest bathroom, pushing the door open and immediately leaning over the toilet seat. Black rose petals fell from your lips attached to the teeming thorny vines pouring out of you like thick ropes.
After a while, you fell onto your back on the tile floor, looking up at the singular warm light as your vision began to blur. You felt like you were getting weaker as you heaved painfully, every breath feeling like a razor being grazed to your insides.
Was this the end? The end of your love, or your life? Maybe it was both.
You felt tears falling down the sides of your face, thinking about how the last moment was your husband telling you he didn't love you anymore on your anniversary, and worst of all—your last place alive would be on the cold tiles of a bathroom floor.
Definitely not the best way to go.