The humiliation of your love for him going unrequited seemed to drill itself into you with every cough that escaped you. Scaramouche remained blissfully unaware of your ailment, and you thought it would be best if it remained that way. He just thought of you as a friend.

With each passing day, your condition got worse. Soon, you started coughing up petals stained with your blood. You could feel the flowers growing inside your lungs, agonizing pain throbbing inside of you as breathing got more and more difficult each day. And yet, you hid it from him. You'd rather die than allow him to find out.

Even now, as he sat across from you, hands fidgeting with an item he wanted to show you that you couldn't care less about—a music box he wanted to gift you—the pain worsened. When would this end?

"So, what do you think of it?" He asked, his gaze rising to look at you expectantly.