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It all came slowly, almost unnoticed.
It was late at night, anyway, so when I refused to talk to her I thought it was because I was tired. And I was. Work had been hard that day. Talking to her might ease the frustration, but it could worsen my headache, too. I recognized disappointment in her eyes but she said nothing and just let me sleep.
But then I realized I’ve been avoiding talking to her these days.
Our conversations had been dull. I grew tired of the meaningless words we said to each other. We never ran out of topics to talk about and it turned out to be a problem. I hoped she didn’t realize it. Because each time I saw the sparks in her eyes, the excitement in her tone, I felt guilty. As if I’ve been lying. For what, I never know.
Or I refused to acknowledge it.
When the coughing started, I brushed it off. Maybe it was the ice cream doing. She looked at me all worried, muttering something about ‘told you not to eat sweet and icy stuff at night’, and asked if I was alright. I told her not to mind it. However, worry never left her eyes since then.
And deep down, I was worried too.
When it became worse, I realized this was no ordinary cough. This was not because of the ice cream or the iced beverages or anything. Something was growing in my lungs. I tried not to panic. Hanahaki was a myth, something I’ve always enjoyed reading about but something that would never actually happen in real life. At least that was what I believed. Or I tried to believe.
In reality, the disease was very much true. I knew some people who went through surgery because they found flowers inside their lungs. Unrequited love, they said. It was the cause of this terrible disease.
But my love was requited. And returned.
I would’ve known if it wasn’t. She always looked me with such affection, the kind of look I longed for. Longed. I was not sure if I still longed for those eyes, for those affections. I was not sure of anything. Still, I tried to hold on to her as long as I could.
“You’re beautiful.” I told her when she sat by my side, feeding me with porridge and water. Right now, breathing felt like choking on rocks. Eating was even worse.
She gave me a thin smile, as if she did not quite believe it.
But it was true. I meant it. She was beautiful. She was beautiful for everything she did. For everything she said. For everything she thought. Why didn’t she believe it? I told her this many times before and always got flushed face in return. Has she finally found out about it? That her beauty doesn’t flutter my heart, not in the same way, anymore?
“I know,” she mumbled. My heart dropped for a moment, thinking she could read my mind. But she continued, “You say that everyday, Vyn.”
“Because you’re beautiful everyday,” I tried to grin, though it was painful to do so.
She laughed, but the sound was soft and sad.
When I finally coughed the first petals, they didn’t look like common flower petals. They were red. They were thin. It took me some minutes to finally realize what it was. Spider lily. Red spider lily. Flower of funeral, flower of death, flower of hell. Am I going to die?
No.
Not me.
I have tried not to acknowledge it. Refused to believe it. But the truth cannot be avoided forever. While the flowers started growing, my feelings for her was decaying. All the sparks, all the love—everything I felt towards her, withered along their bloom.
I was not fast enough to hide it.
“Oh.”
The disappointment. The crack in her voice. The tears in her eyes.
I couldn’t say anything. It was harder to breathe now.
“I see,” she sounded so sad. She looked so sad. Because of me. “It’s time to remove it then.”
I said nothing. I didn’t try to give her an explanation. What was there to explain, anyway? It was crystal clear. Part of me wanted to apologize, but the other part scowled and said thousand apologies won’t be enough. And it was true. What would I say? I’m sorry I fell out of love faster than you do. I’m sorry I no longer have feelings for you.
The surgery went faster than I had expected. The leaves were just starting to grow while the flower was wilting away. She accompanied me, but she said nothing. Not before it started, not after it ended. I wasn’t expecting her to.
“I’m sorry.”
She looked up to the ceilings, not meeting my gaze.
“I’m truly sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. Stop saying things are fine.”
“Okay. It’s not fine.”
I exhaled sharply. But I knew I wasn’t the one who supposed to be upset. She had every right to.
“You could’ve just told me, you know.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“Why, breaking-up is hard for you?”
“With you? Yes.”
“Then why—” she didn’t finish it. Instead, she sighed and shook her head. “Feelings aren’t for us to control. It’s fine. Perhaps things are better this way.”
I looked at the flower in my hand. The doctor gave me this, he thought I wanted to keep it. I didn’t. Red spider lily also means final goodbye.
She got up from her seat. Then, with a smile, she said to me, “Thank you, for everything.”
It seemed like there was something more she wanted to say, but whatever it was, she swallowed it. I watched as she left the room. I watched even after the door closed and she was out of my sight. As I realized she didn’t say she would see me around or something like that, I casted another glance at the flower in my hand. It also meant not to meet again.