This is embarrassing. This is humiliating, he thinks, even as he coughs up White Hyacinth and blood into your bathroom sink. This is awful. he thinks, even as his love for you is slowly suffocating him to death. Even as he knows that’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

He’s already been gone far too long - you were just telling him about your newest crush before he felt flowers bubbling up like ichor and rushed off. “I’m-” he’s interrupted by his own retching, “I’m fine. Don’t come in.”