Blood
To Galinda's dismay, two things happened.
The first was the pain — sudden and sharp, a wrenching heat that bloomed beneath her ribs and climbed, clawing, up her throat. It was different from before. Not just discomfort, not just the uneasy flutter of petals rising — this was jagged and raw, as if something inside her had finally torn loose.
She barely made it into the bathroom, stumbling forward on instinct alone, a hand pressed to her mouth. The tile floor was cold under her feet, the lights too bright, her reflection catching her in the mirror — pale, wide-eyed, and terrified.
But instead of the stall or the shower tucked in the corner, she lunged toward the sink — the nearest thing, the only thing — and gripped the edge with trembling fingers, knuckles blanching as she leaned in.
She didn’t make it in time to shut the door.
And that was the second thing.
Fiyero saw everything.
She didn’t even hear the footsteps — just the silence breaking open like a shell behind her, and then his shadow falling across the threshold.
She doubled over the sink, gagging, and the petals came in a rush — soft at first, brushing her lips like a cruel imitation of affection. Then harsher, torn from somewhere deeper, each one scraped up with bile and something more.
Something worse.
Blood.
It hit the porcelain in a splatter, bright and unmistakable, seeping into the delicate folds of the petals like ink into paper. The pinks and reds were no longer pretty, no longer surreal. Just wrong. Just frightening.
Some stuck to her lips. Others clung to her chin or floated, limp and wet, in the water pooling beneath them. A few slid down the drain like secrets slipping away.
Galinda stared at the mess, her breath coming shallow and too fast, her shoulders heaving. She tried to swallow it down — the panic, the nausea, the sob clawing at the back of her throat — but it only made her stomach twist harder.
Behind her, she heard the smallest sound.
A sharp breath. The kind someone lets out when they’ve just seen something they can’t unsee.
Fiyero.
Of course he had followed. Of course she hadn’t made it to the privacy of a stall. She’d thrown up into the sink — right there, right where he could stand and watch her fall apart with roses and blood between her teeth.
She didn’t turn around.
She couldn’t bear to.
Her body trembled with the aftershocks — not just from the pain, but from the weight of it all: the exposure, the knowing, the unbearable humiliation of being seen like this.
She kept her eyes down, fixed on the mess in the basin. She could still feel the petals on her tongue, the metallic tang of blood lacing through them. Her fingers curled tighter around the counter, as if holding on could anchor her to the moment before it all spilled out.
Then, finally, his voice.
“Galinda.”
Not princess. Not some half-smile drawl or joke.
Just her name.
Quiet. Careful.
She squeezed her eyes shut as if that might close off the rest of her senses too. As if maybe, just maybe, when she opened them, this would all be over.
But it wasn’t.
He knew.
He knew now.
And somehow, that hurt more than the blood.
"You have Hanahaki disease," Fiyero said, voice gentler now as he closed the door to the women's bathroom behind him. The soft click echoed far too loud in the tiled space. He lingered by the entrance, not coming too close, as if he knew instinctively how fragile she felt. "How did that happen?"
Galinda blinked, dazed, still hunched over the sink. Her hands, pale and damp, trembled as she splashed cold water on her lips. It did nothing to wash away the taste. “Disease what…?” she mumbled, breathless.
"Hanahaki," Fiyero repeated, with a kind of stunned disbelief that she didn’t already know. "It’s—well—it’s a disease. You cough up flower petals when you’re suffering from… one-sided love.”
She stared at him, blank.
“One-sided love?” she echoed, like the words themselves were foreign. That was absurd. That was—ridiculous. That was not what this was.
Right?
But Fiyero went on, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if she’d fall apart at any second. “Yes. The symptoms are always the same: pain in the chest, flowers blooming in the lungs, then coughing them up. Or, well—vomiting, in your case.”
That sounded—
That sounded exactly like how she felt.
Every night she’d woken up breathless. Every strange ache behind her ribs. Every time her heart panged at Elphaba’s laughter, or when her stomach twisted seeing her smile at someone else. Every time she’d caught herself looking too long and shoved the feeling down.
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Just air. Just grief.
Fiyero shifted his weight, unsure. He rubbed the back of his neck. “The flowers will keep growing,” he said. “They fill your lungs, your throat… until eventually you can’t breathe. And that’s it. That’s how it ends.”
Galinda clutched the sink again, like the world had tilted beneath her feet. Her nails dug into the porcelain. She could still taste petals at the back of her throat.
“How… how do you know all this?” she whispered, without looking at him.
“I’ve seen it,” he admitted. “Back home. One of my cousins had it. She didn’t tell anyone until it was too late..”
“There’s a surgery,” Fiyero said again, quieter. “It used to be more common in the Vinkus. They can go in and remove the flowers before it gets fatal. But…” He hesitated. “The price is that you stop feeling anything for the person. Nothing. No love, no grief, no memory of what you felt. It’s like you get rewired.”
Galinda looked up at him then, eyes wide, water still dripping from her chin. Her lips were tinged red. Her breath came in shivers.
Feeling nothing for Elphie?
Nothing at all?
No warmth in her chest when Elphaba rolled her eyes with that quiet fondness. No lingering heartbeat when their hands brushed. No ache. No awe. No Elphie.
That idea didn’t feel like a cure.
It felt like death
So, with a name for her illness now in hand, Galinda did something she never thought she would do.
She went to the library.
To research.
Willingly.
It was a horrifying thought, even to herself.
That night, heart pounding, she arranged a careful tower of pillows beneath her blanket — a decoy body, perfectly coiffed and posed, just in case Elphie happened to stir and glance her way in the dark. It looked almost convincing in the moonlight. Or at least, she hoped it did. She couldn’t risk being caught, not when every moment of this felt like some strange betrayal.
Then, with the stealth of a stage magician and the determination of someone whose life quite literally depended on it, she crept through the corridors of Shiz just before dawn. The sky outside was still an inky blue, and the halls echoed with every cautious step she took.
Because Oz forbid anyone should see Galinda Upland from the Upper Uplands sneaking into the library.
Looking for books.
On diseases.
About love.
She would never live it down.
She wasn’t even sure she’d live through it. Not socially, anyway.
This was the sort of thing that happened to other girls — the awkward ones, the wallflowers, the ones with bad shoes and unflattering haircuts who sat alone during lunch. Not to her. Not to the girl who threw perfect parties, who color-coordinated her socks and lip gloss, who smiled through everything with the confidence of someone who knew the world would always say yes to her.
She didn’t get sad.
She didn’t get sick.
She certainly didn’t get infected with something as tragically poetic as unrequited love.
And yet…
Her lungs were blooming with petals. Her mirror had caught her, earlier that evening, plucking a violet from between her lips like it was the most normal thing in the world. There was nothing poised about her then — nothing perfect. Just a girl with panic in her eyes and pollen in her mouth.
So, no — she couldn’t let anyone see her like this.
Not Elphie. Not Madame Morrible. Not some nerdy first-year studying curses in the far corner of the reading room.
She had to be alone.
Had to stay invisible.
Because if anyone knew what was happening, if even a rumor started, it wouldn’t just be her heart on the line — it would be everything she’d built. Her image. Her power. Her carefully curated existence.
And yet here she was.
Galinda Upland, queen of curls and composure, creeping into a room that smelled like parchment and quiet despair, preparing to crack open dusty tomes like some tragic heroine in a second-rate novel.
It was humiliating.
It was terrifying.
It was necessary.
Because no matter how many times she told herself this wasn’t love — that it couldn’t be — her body had stopped listening.
And deep down, she knew:
This wasn’t going away on its own.
Galinda then did her research.
Painstakingly. Begrudgingly. Desperately.
She read through dense medical entries written in cramped script, flipped through ancient magical case studies that smelled like mildew and grief, and even skimmed a few questionably factual romance tomes with titles like Love’s Last Bloom and The Blight of the Heartstruck. She ignored the illustrations. Mostly.
And she discovered some interesting things.
Terrible things.
The disease, Hanahaki, followed a progression — slow at first, almost gentle, like it didn’t want to alarm its host. A few petals here and there, soft and perfumed and deceptively lovely. That part she was already familiar with. She'd even found some in her bed sheets. Once, horrifyingly, in her shoe.
Then came the blood — a darker stage, where the roots took hold, where the flowers began to tear through soft tissue in search of air and light. She was… fine at that stage. Barely. But the books were very clear about what came next.
Four to five weeks.
That was all the time she had before full bloom.
Before her lungs would be strangled by vines. Before roses and thorns and petals and pain consumed her from the inside out. One book had called it a garden of sorrow cultivated in silence. Dramatic. Accurate.
And then? Then she would suffocate.
The end.
Unless…
Unless she confessed.
Unless the person she loved returned her feelings — completely, unconditionally, and without delay.
That was the only known cure.
Confession.
Reciprocation.
Real, mutual love.
Galinda sat there in the library, the candle flickering low beside her, a stack of notes scribbled in her finest script, and realized just how doomed she was.
Because ever since Fiyero had mentioned one-sided love, she’d known — deep in her blood and bones and blooming lungs — that Elphaba was to blame for her illness.
It couldn’t be Fiyero. Of course not. Her hands didn’t sweat around him. Her voice didn’t catch. Her heart didn’t do… whatever the frantic, fluttering thing was every time Elphaba walked into a room. With Fiyero, things were easy. Polite. Predictable. Safe.
But Elphaba? Elphie made her unravel.
One glance from those impossible green eyes, and Galinda forgot what language was. One clever retort, and her chest ached in that quiet, sharp way — the kind of ache that made her reach for her handkerchief, only to pull away a crumpled petal.
It had been Elphaba all along.
And now, if she didn’t do something — if she didn’t say something — she’d die of it.
Wrapped in petals.
Choked by beauty.
Suffocated by silence.
Buried beneath the weight of everything she had never said.
She looked down at her notes again, hands trembling slightly. The ink was beginning to smear — not from carelessness, but from the warm tears she hadn’t noticed slipping down her cheeks. Quiet. Undramatic. Just moisture on skin, like rain before a storm.
Galinda didn’t cry. Not usually. It was unbecoming. Unflattering. And certainly not part of the poised, perfect persona she had so carefully constructed. But here, hidden between towering stacks of dusty books and old magic, alone in the soft hush of the library, she let the truth settle into her bones.
She was in love with Elphaba.
And if she couldn’t find the courage to say it — if Elphaba didn’t feel the same — she would wilt from the inside out.
No one would suspect it. They’d say she fainted. Or that it was some strange magical fever. Maybe someone would whisper that she’d been cursed. That love had nothing to do with it.
But Galinda would know.
And worse, so would the flowers.
The next day was a struggle.
Living with the knowledge that she was truly in love with Elphie changed everything. It made every moment sharper, more saturated. The world hadn’t shifted on its axis — no one else seemed to notice anything different — but inside her, everything had tilted. She was off-balance now, teetering between wonder and dread.
She was aware — acutely, painfully aware — of every touch, every lingering hug, and even the unpretentious kisses she sometimes left on Elphaba’s green cheek without thinking.
Only now, she was thinking. Constantly.
She thought about how Elphaba’s voice softened ever so slightly when they were alone. How her eyes, so sharp in class or debate, held something quieter when they looked at Galinda — if they did. How her fingers twitched when she was deep in thought, like they were casting silent spells into the air.
Every gesture felt heavier. Every word mattered more. And every second that passed without a confession felt like a petal pressing against her ribs, testing the space she had left to breathe.
She'd woken that morning with one in her mouth — a petal, pale and perfumed and crumpled from where she'd accidentally bitten down on it in her sleep. She’d flushed it down the sink and smiled too brightly at breakfast.
It was late afternoon, and the two of them were lying in bed, sharing the latest reading assignment from Madame Morrible. The sun filtered through the curtains in soft gold, casting a halo over their tangled legs and the open books between them. Galinda could still hardly believe it — she had her own wand now. Her name was officially in the roster of magic students. It was something she’d dreamt of since childhood, something that should have consumed her entire world.
And yet, in that moment, all she could focus on was Elphie’s arm, warm and solid against hers. The way their knees brushed under the blanket. The faint scent of ink and stormy air that clung to Elphie’s robes. The way her breathing changed when she was thinking hard — slightly deeper, almost musical.
Her presence — so steady, so fierce — made Galinda feel like she was about to float and drown at the same time.
She shifted just slightly, enough to feel more of Elphaba's side press into hers. It was ridiculous how something so small could make her chest ache.
She sighed, a quiet breath she hadn’t meant to release. Something inside her tightened.
Elphaba turned slightly toward her. “What is it, my sweet?”
The nickname slipped out so effortlessly that it took a second for either of them to register it.
Galinda blinked. Her heart skipped once, then twice. The ache in her chest faltered — not gone, but paused, as if the flowers themselves were holding their breath.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her throat tingled with the memory of petals. She swallowed carefully.
Elphaba’s eyes widened a fraction, realization catching up with her.
“I—” she started, then cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean— I mean, it just came out.”
Galinda’s cheeks flushed. The heat bloomed across her skin faster than she could contain it. “No, it’s… it’s fine,” she murmured, voice soft. “I… liked it.”
Silence fell between them, not awkward but charged — like the air before a thunderstorm.
A gust of wind tapped at the window, rattling it lightly. Somewhere in the castle, a bell chimed the hour, but neither of them moved.
Galinda looked down at the pages of her book, the words a blur. She could feel Elphaba’s gaze still on her, searching, questioning. And beneath that, the rhythmic thrum of her own heart, drumming petals loose with every beat.
“Do you… want me to say it again?” Elphaba asked quietly, with none of her usual sharpness.
Galinda turned her head slowly, her throat tight, petals brushing the inside of her lungs like fingers on harp strings. It wasn’t just the words — it was the way Elphie had said them, so unguarded. Like she meant it, even if she didn’t know what it meant yet.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I think I do.”
Elphaba smiled — a small, tentative thing, but it made Galinda feel like the sun had moved closer. It made the fear ease, just a little.
“My sweet,” she said again, this time more certain.
And this time, Galinda let herself close her eyes and imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if the love were mutual. If she could stay here, in this warmth, and not have to worry about what bloomed inside her chest. If her lungs weren’t a garden counting down the days.
But she didn’t dare ask yet.
Not today.
Instead, she leaned her head gently on Elphaba’s shoulder. Just that. A touch. A beginning. Her pulse slowed, just a little.
And for a while, the petals stayed still. Still enough to hope.
To Galinda’s dismay, Elphaba realized something was wrong at lunchtime — right after Madame Morrible’s seminar, when the room still buzzed with chatter and leftover magic.
Galinda had tried to play it off, sitting stiffly at the table, pushing her food around with a fork she hadn’t lifted to her mouth once. She could feel Elphaba watching her, head tilted in that way she did when something didn’t make sense — a question forming behind her eyes.
At first, Elphaba seemed to assume it was anxiety. Galinda saw it in the soft furrow of her brow, in the way her hand hovered like she wanted to touch her but didn’t. That gentle restraint — so unlike Elphie — almost broke her.
But then it became something more.
More noticeable.
More physical.
More impossible to hide.
Galinda’s vision had begun to blur at the edges. Her skin felt too tight. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, as though trying to drown out the sound of her own body betraying her.
“My sweet?” Elphaba asked gently, pausing mid-bite of her dessert. “You look like you're going to throw up.”
The words were simple — almost teasing — but her tone was thick with concern.
Fiyero’s fork clattered against his plate. He turned sharply toward Galinda, his expression shifting from casual amusement to instant worry.
“Galinda?”
She could feel the color draining from her face, her stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the pain blooming beneath her ribs. Her throat burned. Something pressed up against it — delicate, sharp, and insistent.
“I— I need to go,” she said abruptly, her voice high and thin and not entirely hers.
She stood so quickly the bench scraped loudly against the floor, drawing the attention of several nearby students. A few whispered. Someone laughed nervously. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. She needed a bathroom. Now.
The pressure was unbearable. Something was rising in her throat — and she knew what it was. It was happening again. Only worse this time. Angrier. Desperate.
She ran, one hand pressed to her mouth, the other to her abdomen as if she could hold it all in, as if she could stop the petals from forcing their way up. The corridors warped around her in watercolor streaks — students’ faces swimming past like fish behind glass. She felt Elphaba’s footsteps right behind her. Her voice calling out. Fiyero was further back, confused, slower.
At least this time she made it.
She shoved open the nearest door, stumbled into the empty bathroom, and collapsed into a stall. Her knees hit the tile hard, but she barely felt it. The lock clicked just in time before she doubled over, gagging into the toilet.
The first petals were dry — caught between coughs and sobs, like paper scraping her throat. Pale pink, edges curled, slick with bile. They clung to her lips like apologies she didn’t know how to make.
But then came the blood.
It started as streaks — thin red lines slicing through the delicate softness of the petals. Then drops. Bright and vivid, like punctuation on a sentence she hadn’t meant to write. The petals were no longer just a symptom — they were a warning. A blooming wound.
Her shoulders shook with the effort. Her spine arched, convulsing with each wave. The taste was bitter and floral, like perfume gone rotten. It made her want to scream. Instead, she vomited again — more petals, impossibly soft and horrifyingly beautiful, each one now tinged with crimson.
Outside the stall, the door to the bathroom flew open.[
“Galinda!” Elphaba’s voice, too loud in the echoing space. “Galinda, open the door, please!
Galinda tried to breathe, tried to answer — but all that came up was another cough, another cluster of petals, this time sticky with blood. Her body trembled.
Elphaba’s boots clicked across the tile floor. She banged on the stall door once, twice.
“Galinda, please. Say something. Talk to me!”
Her voice cracked on the last word. She was terrified.
Galinda pressed her forehead to the stall wall, damp with condensation. Her fingers clutched at the edge of the toilet like it might keep her anchored.
“I can’t,” she whispered. She didn’t even know if Elphaba heard her.
A long silence followed, thick and oppressive.
And then — Elphaba’s voice, softer now, trembling but resolute: “Do I need to get someone? Should I get Madame Morrible? Or— or the infirmary—?”
“No!” Galinda gasped, louder than she intended. Her throat burned, raw. “Please, no.”
More petals slid from her lips, a final handful fluttering into the water like a bouquet for her own funeral, now spotted with red.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, staining the fabric. Her body sagged, all strength gone. Her chest ached — not just from the coughing, but from holding so much in. From loving so much and saying so little.
Outside the door, Elphaba was quiet.
She must be crouching now, Galinda thought, forehead probably pressed to the other side of the metal panel. That was what Elphie did — she got close. Even when it hurt. Even when she didn’t understand.
Galinda closed her eyes, heart hammering. She didn’t know how long she could keep this up. This secret. This sickness.
Because love — true, deep, unspoken love — was supposed to be a gift.
But in her case, it was killing her.
One of the reasons Galinda hated this disease — truly, bone-deep hated it — was that it stripped Elphie of her free will. If Elphaba ever found out the truth — the full, unvarnished truth — she wouldn’t hesitate to return the sentiment.
And that… oh, that Galinda would never forgive herself for.
So she did the only thing left to her. She wiped her mouth with the back of a trembling hand, then reached for the toilet paper, carefully blotting the blood smeared across the porcelain, gathering the petals that hadn’t flushed properly, scrubbing away the evidence like it could erase the betrayal written in her body.
She flushed once.
Then again.
Just to be sure.
The air reeked of iron and roses.
Galinda stood on legs that didn’t feel like hers and unlocked the stall door. And there she was — Elphie — waiting with steady hands, guiding her like she was something fragile. Like glass pulled too thin.
“Please, my sweet,” Elphaba said softly, “let’s go to the infirmary.”
Galinda tried — really tried — to resist. To offer some excuse, to pretend for one more moment that everything was fine. But with Elphie calling her that... with that voice, that tenderness…
How could she deny anything?
“You again,” the nurse, Claire Bauman, said the moment they stepped through the door, not even bothering to look up from her mortar and pestle.
Elphaba stiffened beside her. “Have you been here already?” she asked, her voice low — not accusing, but laced with concern, sharp as a blade half-sheathed.
Galinda forced a weak smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “Mm. Menstrual cramps,” she said, the lie slipping out too easily — practiced — and leaving a metallic taste on her tongue.
Claire gave a noncommittal grunt and waved vaguely toward the nearest cot. Elphaba still hadn’t moved.
“Elphie,” Galinda said gently, trying to summon a steadiness she didn’t feel. “Can I speak to her alone?”
Elphaba’s brow furrowed. Her jaw tightened. Galinda knew that look — the war between letting go and holding on. But after a beat, Elphaba nodded. Slowly. Reluctantly. As if stepping back would make her vanish entirely.
“I’ll be right outside,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Galinda watched her retreat through the door, and only when it clicked shut did she exhale — shaky, sharp, too loud in the quiet room. She turned to Claire, who was already watching her with narrowed eyes.
“Well?” the nurse asked. “What’s really going on, Miss Upland?”
“How do you cure Hanahaki disease?”
Galinda didn’t bother with pleasantries. Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but steady — deliberate. It felt like shards of glass were lodged in her throat, but she pushed through the pain. She was done pretending. Done letting people lie to her, or worse, offer her hope wrapped in ignorance and pity.
Claire Bauman froze mid-step.
The nurse’s expression shifted from mild annoyance to something far more complex — first shock, then disbelief, and finally a guarded sort of concern. Her fingers slowly unclenched from the pestle in her hand, setting it down with care, as if any sudden movement might cause Galinda to vanish or collapse right there on the floor.
“Who told you that name?” she asked, voice tight.
Galinda didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, to the tips of her polished shoes speckled with dried water. There was shame there. Not because she asked — but because she’d waited so long.
“Does it matter?” she asked, softer.
Claire sighed, folding her arms across her chest, suddenly looking older than she had a moment ago. “No. I suppose not.”
The silence between them stretched long and taut. Outside, Galinda could still hear Elphaba’s boots pacing — back and forth, a rhythm of anxiety — and each step echoed louder in her chest.
Eventually, Claire moved. She crossed the room and pulled a stool close, sitting down across from her — close enough to study the pallor in Galinda’s cheeks, the dullness in her eyes, the way her breath caught every so often like she was swallowing back something she didn’t want the world to see.
“There’s no easy cure,” Claire said at last, her voice low, steady. “No real one, if we’re being honest. Not the kind people want.”
“I know what the books say,” Galinda snapped before she could stop herself. “Unrequited love. Rooted deep in the lungs. Eventually fatal if untreated. Surgery or confession. Those are the only ways out, right?”
Claire tilted her head slightly, unfazed by the edge in Galinda’s tone. “And?”
Galinda clenched her fists in her lap. “And I can’t tell her.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Because if I do, she’ll say it back,” she continued, more quietly. “Not because she feels the same — but because she thinks she should. Because she’s kind. Because she’s Elphie.”
Claire said nothing. She didn’t need to. The look in her eyes said everything: she understood.
“I’d rather die from this than live knowing I forced her into loving me,” Galinda whispered. “Even if it kills me, at least it’ll be mine. Not hers.”
A long, dense pause.
Claire exhaled through her nose and leaned back slightly, studying the girl in front of her — trembling, proud, terrified. She looked like a ghost of herself, like someone who’d already started fading.
“You’re protecting her from the choice,” Claire said, her voice gentle now.
“I’m protecting both of us,” Galinda repeated, quieter this time. “She doesn’t deserve to carry this. Not when she didn’t ask for it.”
Another silence. Then Claire stood and walked to one of the high cabinets, rummaging behind a row of neatly labeled bottles. She pulled out a small vial, half-filled with something thick and amber-colored, and held it up to the light. It glowed like honey.
“This won’t cure you,” she said. “It might slow things down. Lessen the episodes. Give you time to think.”
Galinda reached for it, her hands trembling despite her effort to look composed. She turned the vial over in her fingers, as if the liquid inside held answers.
“Time would be nice,” she said.
Claire didn’t smile. “Time isn’t a promise, Miss Upland. It’s just a delay.”
Galinda nodded, clutching the vial to her chest like it was a lifeline.
From outside the door, the sound of boots halted.
Elphaba was still waiting.
And Galinda wasn’t ready to lose her. Not to love. Not to fear. Not to anything.
Not yet.
Not ever, if she could help it.
“The nurse gave me something for my stomach,” Galinda said as soon as they stepped back into the room. Her tone was light, almost breezy — too light. “It’ll help with the symptoms.”
It wasn’t the whole truth.
But she was getting good at that — at smoothing over the sharp edges of reality, at disguising desperation with a smile, at half-hearted lies that tasted like copper on her tongue.
She didn’t meet Elphaba’s eyes as she said it. Instead, she busied herself placing the vial carefully on the nightstand, hands lingering longer than necessary, as if organizing her own fear.
Elphaba didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things. Galinda could feel her watching, as if trying to read beneath her skin, to see what she wasn’t saying.
Her gaze drifted up slowly, reluctantly, until it met Elphaba’s. And gods — those green eyes could still undo her.
“Okay,” Elphaba said at last, but the word sounded unsure, like she was still debating whether or not to push further. Then, her voice softened, as did her expression. “What do you say we sleep together tonight, my sweet? I think it’ll help.”
Galinda blinked.
The world seemed to tip sideways for a moment. Her breath caught in her throat, and something deep inside her cracked open like frost under sunlight.
For just a second, everything slowed — the pounding of her heart, the burn in her throat, the memory of blood and petals circling a drain.
Elphaba was offering her comfort. Closeness. Warmth.
And Galinda wanted it so badly it hurt.
Her lips parted in surprise, then curled into something almost like joy. The expression felt foreign on her face after days of pain, but she let it bloom anyway.
“I’d like that,” she said, her voice quiet but clear. “I’d like that very much.”
She didn’t say I need it, though the words trembled just behind her teeth. Didn’t say I’m terrified of being alone with this, or You’re the only thing keeping me steady right now. She didn’t have to.
Because when Elphaba stepped closer, close enough for their shoulders to touch, she reached out — just once — and brushed Galinda’s hair gently behind her ear.
No questions. No pressure.
Only presence.
And that, somehow, was enough to keep Galinda from falling apart.
At least for now.