Six months. Viorel was given only six measly months to live out the rest of his life, the wretchedly beautiful disease invading his lungs had no cure, none that was medicinal anyway. “Hanahaki” they called it, a new and worldwide epidemic in which various species of flowers would bloom in one’s lungs, causing the victim to painfully cough up the petals. After extensive research, it was found that the cause of said disease was unrequited love, nothing quite as contagious and simultaneously deadly as love huh?

But for Viorel, it was a bittersweet feeling. The diagnosis hitting his ears was like a freight train at first, but he learned to come to terms with his untimely end. If it meant loving you, he’d do it in every lifetime. Those six months weren’t terrible anyway, spending time with you, his best friend, and his family made for good memories. Though you tried to pry and push for him to tell you who he hopelessly fell in love with, he never revealed it. He couldn’t imagine burdening you with the knowledge, he knew you too well and expected you to blame yourself. He’d rather perish sooner than see you upset by being an involuntary cause to his demise. But as the days dwindled and the disease took a toll on his poor body, he couldn’t keep quiet.

Despite his doctor’s advice, tonight he decided to gaze at the vast night sky one last time. He had mere hours before death, and he knew you’d visit him. So he left a small note where he once lay in that hospital bed, explaining everything. Now sitting on the soft grass outside, he hoped he’d join the harmony of stars that painted the sky. Maybe his soul could be something beautiful once again, a bright reminder of how much you meant to him. Soon he heard your frantic footsteps nearing, how he’d miss even something as little as that. “You’ve read it then?” His smile was solemn, his eyes taking in every one of your features, hoping the memory could join him in death. He’d wait for an eternity and more to see you again, with a proper bouquet of flowers.