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Hanahaki Disease: noun.: A disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from unrequited love. Symptoms vary, but the most noticeable is the coughing of flower petals , which can slowly progress into full flowers if not treated soon enough. It ends when their beloved reciprocates feelings, or throughout a process of surgical removal of the flower stem, yet the removal would also remove the victim’s romantic feelings for their beloved as well.
At first, it was the smallest tickle in Vivian’s throat. It came up during the main set, and although it was uncomfortable, Vivian brushed it off. Was it what she ate that day, or did she swallow something in her water earlier at school? Either way, it didn’t bother her. Nothing ever bothered Vivian.
But then, it wasn’t just a tickle anymore.
Bent over some calculus book, the itch was getting harder and harder to ignore. You hastily flip a page, skim over the long texts, trying so, so hard to retain the information.
But the words look like a jumbled mess to you. The more water you drink, the more lodged the object becomes. And that is until you finally cough it out in your hands.
It’s a single, white petal.
A single white petal, laying in Vivian’s hands. It’s small, delicate, and just slightly torn on the sides. She feels the itch in her throat temporarily go away for just a bit, and sighs in relief.
“You okay?” A girl from over the other desk asks, looking genuinely concerned. Vivian quickly hides her petal in the palm of her hand.
“Uh…yeah.” She mumbles, shoving her petals in her pocket.
Vivian never liked or disliked flowers, and she certainly didn’t care for the color white. But that day was the day that Vivian finally decided that he hated flowers. Especially the strange, white ones that flowed out of her mouth.
She hated how the petals were like a symbol of her weakness: her nonchalant nature being replaced with some…vulnerability. And Vivian hated that: she hated being vulnerable. She hated being in love. And most of all, she hated being in love with the one person that made her so, so vulnerable.
Because Vivian knew. She knew who was the person causing all of this, and she knew that reciprocating their love would never be a plausible way out of this situation. Some people were just too out of reach: Colette Foster was one of them. Vivian decided that she wouldn’t count on her to reciprocate anything.
Knowing the actual solution, Vivian could always take the route most people choose: removing the vines and the flower stem in the very beginnings of the disease. That way the vines could be stopped before growing too out of control, too out of hand.
Yet, was it selfish for her not to want that?
The girl from the other desk hesitates before returning back to her work, and Vivian quietly stares down at her book again. But no. The words were wrong.
The numbers blurred, the equations untangling themselves and then it was all the same. The same few letters repeating over and over again.
Colette. Colette. Colette.
The words seemed to grow like vines, spreading across the paper like flower stems. And no matter how hard Vivian blinked, the words just wouldn’t go away.
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Vivian wasn’t reckless. She knew how to keep a secret.
For days, she hid away her sickness, coughing up the annoying white petals in the safety and secrecy of the school bathrooms, and clenching her fists into her pockets. During tutoring sessions, she forces the petals down her throat, grits her teeth, acts like nothing is wrong. Maybe her feelings for Colette were never real after all. Maybe the flowers would disappear.
But the Hanahaki disease doesn’t fade. It festers.
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Her breath was raggedy, heavy as she leaned on the wall. The familiar petals start crawling up her throat, and she covers her mouth, looks at her hand, and the petal floats onto the ground. A familiar routine for her around this time. She was used to the constant itch in her throat, the constant need for water. Yet, something seems different.
The students in the halls began to drown out Vivian’s gasps, as she clutched the sides of the walls. Her heart began to pound harder and harder, and her chest started to burn. She couldn’t hold on for any longer here.
As soon as she stepped in the bathroom, her chest seized up, and she let the petals bloom. More than ever, petals began to spill out of her: some full, others torn. Her hands are rubbing the sink as she stares down at the now pile of petals.
And even worse, after examining one of the petals closely, she sees a tinge of brownish-red. Blood red.
The disease was progressing, fast. And Vivian wasn’t in control of it anymore.
As if the situation just couldn’t go any worse, Vivian hears the door creak open.
“Vivian?”
No-No-No-No
Colette. The worst possible person to have entered that door, right then, right now, was seeing Vivian at her lowest. Vivian quickly tried to shove the petals away, hiding them under her arms. But it was to no use: Colette had already seen the pile of petals in the sink.
Vivian barely had any time to register the shame brought upon himself before Colette began speaking again.
“I was trying to find you,” she rambled on, “For the tutoring thing, but I didn’t see you. So I checked here and-”
Colette straightens up and walks towards Vivian, staring up intently at the taller girl. “Hey…what’s wrong?”
There’s something in her voice: light, but there’s something beneath it. Something more.
“It’s…it’s nothing” Vivian hated how her voice stuttered, skipping over words, refusing to let her catch her breath. She was supposed to be calm, cool, collected. Colette just couldn’t let her be that way.
Colette didn’t look convinced. “Are you-” her eyes study Vivian’s, and Vivian can feel her heart pounding, “Is this Hanahaki?”
Fuck
Vivian wants to run out of the locker room, disappear into the ground. And Colette was just standing there, blocking the doorway, hands crossed, eyes stern, but not quite. There’s something else in her eyes as she looks at Vivian and the petals in the sink. Concern.
At least that’s what Vivian thinks it is, but she quickly shakes her head. No, that’s a stupid, selfish lie. That’s delusional, and Vivian is not delusional.
But Vivian can’t quite help but love the moment just as much as she hated it.
She loved the way Colette was looking at her just as much as she hated it.
She loved the way Colette talked to her just as much as she hated it.
She loved the person in front of her so, so much, and Vivian hated that she had to admit it. But, she would yearn for Colette forever secretly, over and over and over again, in every lifetime, if it meant Colette could love her back.
Because although Vivian hated that she loved Colette, she loved Colette too much to hate her.
And at that moment, Vivian knew what she had to do.
Because even if Vivian had to give up her life, she would never give up loving Colette.
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The next few days, Vivian avoided Colette like the plague.
It wasn’t hard to avoid her: they were mostly in seperate classes, and with the few minutes that they did have in contact with each other, Vivian was able to keep conversation, to anyone at all, to a minimum.
But it didn’t help that the Hanahaki disease only kept spreading. At this point, Vivian couldn’t go an hour without having to cough up the petals stuck in his throat. During tutoring sessions, she had to bite the inside of her cheek until it drew blood, just to keep from choking on petals in front of someone else.
Vivian wonders how long she can keep this all up.
But she already knows the answer.
Not much longer.
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Vivian grips the edge of the sink with tight, convulsing fingers. Her chest seizes violently, but this time, it’s different. Vivian has been coughing up multiple petals over the past few weeks, but she knows that this time, it’s not just petals.
Black spots dance in her vision, and she feels dizzy. Something large rises up from her throat, and she can’t help but gag. The object tears through her throat, rising higher and higher until Vivian cannot breathe completely. And then, with one last agonizing sigh, the object drops.
A full flower, whole, pristine, basking in its cruel glory, ever-so-slightly stained blood red. The weight of the flower on Vivian’s palm feels like a death sentence. And it feels like-
It feels like she’s drowning.
Drowning in flowers.
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The room feels cold today, or maybe it’s just Vivian, as she sits in front of Colette, watching her finish her work. Her work is fine, perfect, even. And Vivian’s fine too.
It has to be fine.
But it’s not, especially when you accidentally forget a formula and have to go searching in the textbook to find it. And it’s not, especially when you’re supposed to be the tutor, yet your student is waiting for you. And it’s especially not when you begin gagging again.
Gagging so hard, so violently, that it makes your head spin. So hard that a full, blood soaked flower rises in your throat, falling onto the desk in front of you.
And suddenly, you feel such a sharp jerk beside you, turning him towards you. It’s Colette, her hands gripping so tightly onto Vivian’s shoulders, her eyes wild with desperation.
Vivian can barely make out a word Colette is talking, but all he can see is Colette’s pretty, pretty face.
“I’m begging you,” Colette’s voice cuts through the air, lowered to a plea, a whisper, “Please, please just tell me. Who is this person?”
No.
I won’t, but…
“Who is this person that got you Hanahaki?” Colette’s voice is more fierce now, and she looked at Vivian with such pleading eyes.
“It’s…it’s you”
And then the fateful words spilled out, and it was all over.
Colette’s grip tightens on Vivian. Maybe a week ago, Vivian wouldn’t want to look up anymore, in fear of the shame, the disappointing truth. Yet the truth was out, and Vivian cared for nothing about the shame of everything anymore. All she cared about was the person in front of her-
"You idiot," Colette breathes, her voice rough, "You absolute idiot,"
Before Vivian can process the words hanging in the air, Colette’s lips crash into Vivian’s. A whirlwind of desperation, messy, raw, but not unkind. Colette kisses her like she’s afraid, afraid Vivian would disappear, like she’s trying to rewrite the past with her lips and her love. Colette kisses her as if it were her last, or maybe it really would be her last.
And Vivian doesn’t care. She kissed back, because she doesn’t care anymore. Not about the simple, childish shame that came with loving someone. Not about the fear of disintegrating under the touch of Colette. Even if the flowers are still there, the vines still twisted around her lungs, too deeply rooted for their love to unravel, it was okay.
At least she had Colette there with her.
At least she wasn’t there drowning in flowers, alone.