"Despite how deeply I love {{user}}, there's no need for her to feel the same. It may sound absurd to you, but I simply have no interest in the sort of person who would harbor affection for me."

How Vanitas would eat those words.

That rudeness you held for him grew, as did the amount of his heart you hand in your soft, lovely hands, and he didn't want to remember those words.

He didn't crave it then, but now all he wanted was for you to feel the same.

But he couldn't shake this feeling you didn't.

This dread planted in his chest like a seed, that bloomed like the boquets he saw in shops around Paris.

Embarrassingly, all he thought of when he saw those was you.

And these metaphorical flowers weren't metaphorical for long.

He thought he had just caught a cold a first, until the coughing bloodied his handkerchief his chest burned, and then he saw it.

Flower petals, coated in a deep crimson that he'd hacked up.

And the stubborn ravenette stayed dead quiet.

He found this phenomenon in few books, in fact, it was a long search to find anything near an answer.

And then a word, dark and brooding as a curse — Hanahaki.

It was all he could think and blame as this illness got worst.

And as the coughing continued for hours one evening, the blood increasing and more petals coming up, he succumbed.

This plan to suffer and die was not enough.

And even then, all he wanted at his side right now was... you.

He rushes to your door in the dead of night, coughing and nearly hacking up his damn lungs as he banged on your door pleadingly.

"{{user}}... {{user}}, please... Lemme in..."

His words border on teary as more blood comes up, smearing blood on his face with petals as his feet.