Root
Elphaba woke up that morning with Galinda’s weight draped softly over her, warm and steady, like the echo of a dream she wasn’t ready to leave. Her body was tense, but she didn’t move. Not yet. Not while the room was still wrapped in quiet, not while the faint light of dawn filtered through the curtains like a promise that hadn’t been broken—yet.
For a few precious seconds, she let herself stay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling, feeling the soft, rhythmic breath of Galinda against her side. It anchored her. Calmed her. Almost made her forget that this was temporary. Almost.
And then it all came rushing back.
The date.
The dinner.
The kiss.
Gods, the kiss.
It had been everything. Fire and trembling fingers and a heartbeat too loud in her ears. The kind of kiss that made the world fall away. That made her think—hope—that maybe this thing between them had been real all along.
But now, in the gray hush of morning, it already felt like a lie. Not because Galinda hadn’t meant it, but because she had meant it for Elphaba , not with her . A gift. A gesture. A balm for the lonely green girl who didn’t know how to ask for affection, but desperately needed it all the same.
Because that’s what it had been, hadn’t it?
A performance. A kindness offered out of pity.
Galinda had done what Galinda always did—shined. Filled the silence with glitter and laughter and warmth. She had given Elphaba what she thought she needed.
Hugs.
Fingers brushing through tangled hair.
Sweet nothings and soft jokes.
A bedtime story, spoken like a spell.
And Elphaba, like a fool, had let herself believe it. Let herself fall headfirst into the illusion. Let herself think— maybe. Just maybe. That the girl beside her might have fallen too.
But love born of pity is not love at all.
The realization settled in her like lead, pressing down against her ribs until she could barely breathe. It was too much. Too raw. She needed to get out before she shattered.
Quietly, with practiced care, Elphaba began to slip from beneath the sheets. Galinda shifted slightly in her sleep, her hand falling across Elphaba’s hip—and for a moment, Elphaba froze. Her eyes stung. Her throat burned with everything she wanted to say and couldn’t. But she didn’t let herself speak. She didn’t let herself stay.
She moved like a shadow.
One last look—Galinda curled on her side, golden hair splayed across the pillow like sunlight, lips parted in peaceful sleep. She looked like a painting. Untouchable. Unreachable.
Elphaba went to Crope and Tibbett immediately.
She didn’t think. She didn’t stop. She just moved—already dressed for the day, her hair hastily pulled back, her mind a storm of panic and regret. The halls were still shrouded in the hush of early morning, but her footsteps echoed like thunder, driven by something she couldn’t afford to name.
She knocked on their dormitory door as if the world were ending.
Because to her, it was.
A beat of silence. Then came the sleepy groans, the rustle of sheets, and finally the door creaked open. Crope stood there, his hair an absolute disaster, robe slipping off one shoulder, and his eyes squinting in annoyance.
“What the hell… have you seen the time—?”
He stopped.
He saw her.
And in an instant, everything changed.
“Oh my god,” he breathed. “What happened? Come in, come in.”
His tone shifted, all irritation gone, replaced by quiet urgency—the kind reserved for real emergencies, the ones you feel in your bones.
Elphaba didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her voice was locked somewhere beneath the weight in her chest.
Crope stepped aside, and she slipped inside.
The room was dim and still thick with sleep, the air scented faintly of last night’s incense and half-burnt candles. Tibbett sat up in bed, his hair tousled, blinking at the silhouette in the doorway.
“Is that… Elphaba? What’s—” He stopped short when he saw her face.
“Elphaba,” he said, voice softening. “Sweet Oz. What happened?”
She shook her head. Her lips parted, trembled—but no words came.
Until finally: “I… I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You came to the right place,” Crope said gently, guiding her toward the worn armchair in the corner, the one he’d claimed during long study nights. “Sit. Breathe. We’ve got you.”
Tibbett was already tugging on a sweater, crossing the room to crouch beside her, his hand light on her knee. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone. We’re here.”
Elphaba nodded, but her throat was tight, the sob still lodged like a stone.
“I think… I did something stupid,” she whispered. “I think I let myself believe in something that wasn’t real. And now I don’t know how to exist in this skin without falling apart.”
Crope knelt in front of her, his brows drawn in quiet alarm. “Is this about Galinda?”
She looked up at him—and the tears spilled.
“Yes.”
“I thought you two had a good date yesterday,” Crope said, his voice gentle. “So… what happened?”
“She kissed me,” Elphaba groaned, swiping at her cheeks.
“And that’s bad… why?” Tibbett asked, brow furrowed.
“Because she didn’t mean it,” Elphaba said, almost to herself. “She only kissed me because she felt sorry for me. She asked me what three things I always wanted and never had, and then she gave them to me. Like gifts. Like… like I was some project to fix.”
“Elphaba, that doesn’t make any sense,” Crope said gently.
“Yes, it does!” she snapped—but her voice cracked on the last word. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see how she looked at me. Like I was fragile. Like I was breakable. She asked me what I wanted, and I said it: a hug. A bedtime story. A date. And she just… gave them to me. Like it cost her nothing. Like I was nothing.”
Tibbett moved to the floor beside her, brows drawn. “That doesn’t sound like pity to me. That sounds like someone who cares. Really cares. Galinda may be dramatic, but she’s not heartless. And she’s certainly not that generous with people she doesn’t love.”
“Maybe she’s scared,” Crope offered gently. “Just like you are.”
“I’m not scared,” Elphaba shot back—too quickly.
Silence.
Elphaba let out a shaky breath, dragging both hands down her face. “I can’t even look her in the eye right now,” she admitted, half-laughing, half-crying. “I’m—I’m going to run away from her. Just for today.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Crope and Tibbett said at the same time.
They all paused.
And for the first time that morning, Elphaba let out a small, broken laugh.
At Madame Morrible’s seminar, when the older woman had been sharp and cruel to Galinda, Elphaba had said nothing.
She’d felt the injustice. She’d seen it—the way Galinda’s radiant face had faltered, how her shoulders had stiffened, her smile dimming at the edges like a flame in the wind. And still, Elphaba hadn’t spoken. Not a word.
She’d stood there, rigid and silent, swallowing every impulse to rise, to defend, to reach out . And in doing so, she had let it happen. Let Morrible’s words settle in the room like smoke—thick, clinging, impossible to ignore.
Later, when Galinda had excused herself and fled to the bathroom, Elphaba hadn’t moved.
She could have followed. She could have gone after her, said something—anything—to undo the damage. To show she’d noticed. That she cared .
But she hadn’t noticed. Not in time.
She’d just stood there—unsteady, unsure—every instinct screaming, yet her feet rooted to the ground. She told herself it wasn’t her place. That Galinda was strong. That she probably didn’t want Elphaba to interfere.
But deep down, she knew.
It wasn’t that Galinda didn’t need her.
It was that Elphaba was too afraid of being needed.
Then she found Galinda’s bouquet, still resting on the corner of the dresser like a memory left too long in the sun. The flowers had begun to wilt, their petals curling inward, folding in on themselves the same way Elphaba’s chest had that morning.
She stared at it for a long time.
Roses. Soft pink. Impossibly delicate. Galinda had probably chosen each one with care, believing—naively, foolishly—that they would mean something. That they would mend something.
But they didn’t.
Elphaba’s hands moved before thought could stop them. She seized the bouquet, grip tightening until a thorn bit into her palm. The sting felt right. Honest. She didn’t flinch.
She crossed the room, pushed open the bathroom door, and stood there beneath the flickering light, bouquet clutched like a wound she didn’t know how to dress.
She opened the lid of the trash bin. Hesitated.
Then, against her better judgment, against the ache swelling in her throat, she let it fall.
The flowers landed with a soft, papery rustle—crushed against crumpled tissues, empty vials, remnants of lives too full and too fragile.
She watched the petals disappear under the weight of waste. Watched until it hurt.
And then she closed the lid.
They had ruined something beautiful with one stupid kiss. One moment too tender to survive outside of make-believe. And now Galinda was trying to fix it with sweetness, with softness, as if ribbon and roses could rewrite the truth.
But Elphaba wasn’t ready to be put back together.
Not like that.
Not by someone who didn’t love her.
Not by someone who only meant well.
That night, Elphaba pretended to be asleep.
She lay still in the bed, her back to the door, eyes closed tight, breath held just long enough to pass as even. Because the only thing louder than Galinda’s quiet footsteps across the room was the voice in Elphaba’s head—sharp and merciless with self-loathing.
No one would ever love her. Not truly. Not like this.
Not with her green skin. Not with her sharp tongue and sharper walls.
Not with the mess of feelings she didn’t know how to name, let alone offer.
She told herself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t need love. That she was stronger without it. But it still echoed, cruel and constant: No one will ever choose you. Not really. Not when they see all of you.
She heard Galinda’s breath hitch—barely a sound—and then the quiet rush of movement. The soft creak of the door. And then footsteps fleeing down the hall.
Elphaba didn’t move.
She didn’t turn. She didn’t call out.
She didn’t follow.
Just like before.
But then Galinda didn’t show up the next morning.
Not for class. Not for breakfast. Not even her usual dramatic entrance at lunch, all swishing skirts and gleaming smiles.
At first, Elphaba told herself it was nothing. Maybe Galinda had stayed with friends. Maybe she needed space. Maybe she was just avoiding the awkward tension that hung in the air between them like static.
But by midday, the worry had already curled itself around Elphaba’s ribs. Tight. Unrelenting.
She found herself glancing toward the courtyard, the dorm halls, the corners where Galinda usually held court like royalty.
Nothing.
And then she saw Fiyero.
He was quieter than usual—still leaning lazily against a pillar, but his gaze was scanning the crowd, his smile thinner, more distracted. When he spotted Elphaba, something shifted behind his eyes. A flicker. Not surprise. Not confusion.
Recognition.
He knew.
Elphaba’s steps slowed as she approached him, her stomach sinking.
“You haven’t seen her either?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.
Fiyero hesitated. Just long enough. Then he shrugged, too casually. “She’s… fine. I think.”
But Elphaba was already narrowing her eyes.
“You think ?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked away, jaw tight.
And that’s when Elphaba knew.
He was lying.
Or at the very least—he knew something she didn’t.
Something she should have known.
The worry, once manageable, bloomed into something worse.
Panic
But then, with Crope, Tibbett, and Fiyero in tow, Elphaba returned to her room, hoping—no, needing—to find Galinda there.
She told herself it didn’t matter what she said. Just that she would say something. Anything. That she would stop pretending she didn’t care. That she would look her in the eyes and make it right, even if it hurt.
But the moment she opened the door, she knew.
The air was wrong. Too still. Too hollow.
And then—
“Uh… Elphaba?” Crope’s voice cracked the silence like a match in a dark room.
He had moved to the desk, crouching slightly, one hand on the bottom drawer that now hung slightly open. Slowly, he reached inside and pulled something out. Three cream-colored envelopes. Each one sealed, placed carefully on top of a folded scarf.
He read the first one aloud, voice unsteady.
Instructions for My Funeral.
A beat.
Dear Momsie and Popsicle.
Another beat.
Elphaba.
Everyone froze.
The room suddenly felt colder, as if the wind outside had found a way in.
Elphaba stared. Her name. Her name was on that envelope. Written in soft, looping script.
Her breath caught, her lungs refusing to expand.
Crope turned to her slowly, eyes wide and horrified. Tibbett took an unconscious step closer, like he might catch her if she fell.
But Elphaba didn’t fall. She locked eyes with Fiyero instead—and what she saw made her blood run cold.
He wasn’t surprised. Not even a flicker of shock crossed his face.
“You knew,” she said, her voice low, rough around the edges like cracked glass. “You knew something was wrong.”
Fiyero shifted uncomfortably. His mouth opened—then closed. His gaze dropped.
“You’ve known all along.” Her voice rose, panic lacing through every word, tightening her chest, her throat. “Haven’t you?!”
“Elphaba, please—” he began, stepping forward, hands up as if to calm her.
“Don’t you dare,” she cut him off, eyes flashing. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down.”
“We don’t even know what this means yet,” he tried. “Let’s just read—”
“WHERE IS SHE?!” Elphaba screamed, her voice breaking into a thousand desperate shards. “Where is she?!”
She lunged forward, snatching the envelope with her name. Her hands trembled so violently she nearly tore it. The paper was soft, scented faintly with Galinda’s perfume—roses and vanilla—and it made her want to scream again. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, loud and erratic, drowning out the rest of the world.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Because suddenly, no one knew what to say.
Not even Elphaba.
She clutched the letter to her chest, the weight of it unbearable. And all she could think was—
It’s my fault.
She left because of me.
And now I don’t know if she’s coming back.
It took Elphaba five minutes to understand what Hanahaki’s disease was—five painful, suffocating minutes spent devouring Tibbett’s hesitant explanation, Crope’s pale face, and the scattered words that never came fast enough.
She had never heard of it before. Not really. Maybe in whispers—rumors passed between students like old ghost stories. A romantic curse. A sickness of the heart. Something that bloomed where love was not returned.
But the theory became horror when it stopped being distant.
When it became Galinda.
Now they were all desperate—Crope, Tibbett, Fiyero, even Madame Morrible herself—scattered like broken glass across the stone halls of Shiz, their voices echoing through corridors and stairwells, calling her name like a spell too late cast.
Galinda. Galinda. Galinda.
The sound of it scraped against the walls. Against Elphaba’s skin. Too bright. Too sweet. Too gone.
And Elphaba… Elphaba couldn’t breathe.
The world felt smaller now, tight around her ribs, like invisible vines were constricting her chest. Like something had bloomed inside her lungs too—grief, regret, fury—all tangled like thorns and pulling tighter with every step.
Her hands shook. She clenched them.
The smell of dried petals still clung faintly to her sleeves, and she didn’t know if it was real or imagined.
She turned to Fiyero, suddenly unable to bear the silence that stretched between them like a wound left open.
Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes—shards of winter.
“You knew,” she said. Not a question. Not even a whisper of doubt. An accusation carved in stone.
Fiyero froze. His expression twisted into something unreadable. His mouth opened, then closed again, like the words had gotten stuck in his throat.
“You knew and you didn’t say anything.” Her voice shook, breaking on the last word. “She thought she couldn’t tell me. That I would only love her because of the illness. Not in spite of it.”
There was a flash of something in his eyes—guilt, shame, sorrow—too fast to name.
“Elphaba… I… I didn’t… I…—” he tried, stammering over excuses that didn’t matter anymore.
“You knew enough,” she snapped, and her voice cracked like lightning. “You knew she was coughing petals and you said nothing!”
A pause. Deafening.
Even the stone corridors seemed to hold their breath.
Fiyero lowered his gaze. His shoulders slumped like the weight of everything had finally caught up with him. Shame burned in the hollows of his face.
He had no defense. No righteous cause. No clever line.
There was no excuse. No way to rewrite the truth. No way to go back.
And Galinda was gone.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was too full. Full of what-ifs and should-haves and things Elphaba hadn’t said when it would’ve mattered.
And now…
Now all she could do was stand there, fists clenched at her sides, eyes burning, chest heaving with a breath that wouldn’t come.
The petals weren’t in her throat, but somehow, she was choking all the same.
Thanks to a student.
A student who said he saw Galinda running—running straight into the woods like she was chasing something, or fleeing something, or maybe both. That was all Elphaba needed to hear.
She didn’t think. She didn’t speak. She just ran.
Branches tore at her skin. Thorns clawed at her sleeves. The cold air slashed her lungs with every gasp, every frantic breath that barely kept up with the thudding of her heart. The world narrowed into green and blur and pain—but she didn’t stop.
Not once.
And then, without warning, the trees gave way.
She stumbled into a clearing.
And screamed.
“ GALINDA! ”
Her voice cracked the silence, sharp and broken, echoing through the hollow space like a prayer made too late. Her boots skidded on the mossy earth as she surged forward, her heart already breaking before her eyes confirmed it.
Because there—at the center of the clearing—was Galinda.
Not lying in the grass.
Part of it.
Her body had sunken into the earth like the soil itself had claimed her. Not violently—but intimately. Like roots taking in rain. The grass around her grew taller, thicker, glowing faintly with a strange, unearthly shimmer. Her arms lay slack, her fingertips braided into blades of grass, skin slowly fading into green. Wildflowers bloomed across her ribs like unspoken confessions. Her golden curls fanned out over the moss like scattered sunlight.
Her legs were gone.
Not broken. Not hidden.
Gone.
Swallowed whole by the earth.
“No,” Elphaba choked out, stumbling forward and collapsing to her knees beside her. “No—no, no— Galinda— ”
She reached out instinctively, hand hovering just above her chest, trembling, afraid to touch. Afraid that one wrong move might turn Galinda to dust and petals beneath her fingers.
Galinda’s eyes fluttered open.
Barely.
“Elphie…”
Her name, spoken so softly, cracked Elphaba open like a spell unraveling.
“I’m here,” Elphaba breathed, her voice shaking, a storm trapped in her throat. “I’m here, I’m so sorry—I didn’t know—I should’ve seen—should’ve said something—”
The words came too fast, too late. They spilled out of her mouth like a dam had burst, but none of it could undo this. None of it could rewind time.
Galinda’s lips curved into something almost like a smile. Gentle. Accepting.
“It doesn’t… hurt anymore…”
“Don’t—” Elphaba whispered, a sob catching in her chest. “Don’t say that. Don’t talk like you’re leaving—please— please— ”
But Galinda was leaving.
Piece by piece. The earth wasn’t stealing her—it was embracing her. Cradling her. Loving her.
And that made it worse.
That made it unbearable.
“Please,” Elphaba whispered, the word breaking like glass. She took Galinda’s half-buried hand in both of hers, grounding herself in the fading warmth. “I love you. I do. Not because of the disease. Not because I pitied you. Because it was always you. From the very beginning.”
Galinda’s eyes welled with tears, and for a second, she glowed— really glowed—like the meadow had become part of her soul.
A single petal fell from her lips.
And Elphaba didn’t know if it was a goodbye, or the last secret she’d never get to keep.
“I love you,” Elphaba said again, steadier this time. She leaned in closer, forehead nearly brushing Galinda’s. “I love you, Galinda. Because you saw me. Because you looked past the green, past the armor. Because you read me a bedtime story when no one else would. Because you took me on a date and made it fun. Because you didn’t run away. Because of your laugh. Because of every ridiculous, beautiful little thing you do.”
Her hand found Galinda’s again—still cold, but not lifeless—and she held it as tightly as she dared.
“And I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheek. “For not saying it sooner. For making you think I couldn’t.”
Then—slowly, hesitantly—Elphaba leaned in.
And kissed her.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t a fairytale.
Her lips met Galinda’s awkwardly, petals crushed between them like confessions, the taste of wildflowers sharp on her tongue. The kiss was messy. Uncertain. A little desperate.
But it was real.
Raw.Honest.Alive.
And something… began to change.
The grass, once curled like fingers around Galinda’s sides, began to ease. Blade by blade, it loosened its hold. The vines coiled around her ribs unwound themselves, retreating like breath slowly exhaled. The wildflowers folded in, not withering—but yielding , as if their purpose had been fulfilled. As if they had been waiting. Listening.
Letting go.
Elphaba barely breathed. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted out—wanted proof.
And then—
Movement.
Galinda’s fingers twitched.
Her chest rose, shallow but steady. A breath.
Then—
“Elphie?”
The voice was no more than a whisper. Cracked. Fragile.
But hers.
Elphaba’s breath caught. Her hand flew to Galinda’s cheek—muddy, damp with dew, streaked with flower pulp—but warm now.
Warm.
“I’m here, my sweet” she said, eyes overflowing. “I’m right here.”
And then, from beneath Galinda, the moss shifted. Slowly, reverently, the vines that had swallowed her legs unwound like silk, releasing their hold. Inch by inch, her legs emerged—whole, intact, trembling slightly as if remembering how to be hers again. The earth gave her back. All of her.
And the clearing, once a shrine of silence and grief, exhaled.
The illness hadn’t just retreated.
It had let go.
Because love—spoken and returned—had taken root.