A short love story about the infamous Hanahaki disease, and my personal take on it.
Eventually, as the petals piled around their feet like snow, his body turned to a chalk outline and his bed became a wooden box.
Four months ago to that day is when the first petal fell.
When he spotted her across the room, and the first drop of faded red dripped from his lips and stained the dirty floor red. She looked at him sometimes, but he never felt the same passion burn into the back of his head that he stared at her with.
They were close a lot. Projects, work, anything he could do to just live in her presence. He put her down as his emergency contact because he knew her smile could keep his heart beating no matter what.
But hers’ was a man that shared her maiden name, and a sister in college. And he was never her first choice, never the one she picked first. But it wasn’t out of spite-she simply didn’t see him.
And every little thing seemed to matter so much-every brush of their hands and every smile caused his heart to flutter like the rose petals had turned into little red butterflies in his lung.
And more and more the petals fell.
They made a red stream to his house, spilling out of his car and trickling on to the black soil.
He used to love the sun but now he craved the rain because it washed away the petals. He would open all the doors and windows in his house and let the water flood in, carrying the petals through his door and washing into the city streets.
But three days later, like supernatural clockwork, he would wake up with red piles swept into corners and under his bed.
The day he died, the day he confessed, the white petals stopped flowing from her mouth. She no longer had to live with the soft flowers blossoming from her lungs, drowning her in an ashy flurry.
And at his casket, leaning over with little diamonds decorating her eyes and rosy cheeks, she finally admitted what she’d been afraid to.
Her lips brushed his skin.
The rose pushing against his cheek wilted.