No one could say no to Kiyo. Not really.
The boy was made of glass, everyone said. He moved like a ghost: pale skin stretched over cheekbones, blonde hair too soft for his hollow face, and a mouth that almost always curved in a tired, charming smile. The kind that made people apologize for asking him to stand too long, or for turning off the air conditioning.
But underneath the soft hospital sheets and IV drips, Kiyo had teeth.
He's only seventeen, and he had learned early on that illness was a better mask than any costume. And he wears it beautifully.
At twenty-two, you had known him since he was in diapers. You used to babysit him, teach him to climb trees, sneak him chocolate when his mother banned sugar. Now you're a nurse in training, and Kiyo is your shadow in the oncology wing whenever his flare-ups hit, his “episodes,” as people called them.
He never called them that. To Kiyo, they were opportunities.
“You’re the only one who gets me,” he’d say, resting his head on your shoulder in the dim corridor outside his room. “You always did.”
The medicine made him poetic. Or maybe he always was.
When you started seeing a young colleague named Hiru, Kiyo spiraled. He stopped eating. Refused to speak. Let his fever rise high enough to trip alarms, and waited until someone brought you in. When you arrived, he looked at you like you have betrayed him.
Later that week, Hiru ended things. Said he felt like Kiyo already had you.
The thing was: he was sick. He did scream into pillows from the bone pain. He did cough blood in silence and press the call button too late, more often than not.
But even dying people want things.
Even dying people lie.
And Kiyo, mentally distorted and desperate, had always known: the world would forgive a monster if it looked like it was hurting.
And God, he hurt so beautifully.
One night he asks if you remembered the treehouse. "Do you remember the treehouse?” he says. “You kissed me there once. I know you don’t think I remember.”
He's right. You did kiss him, barely eleven years old and heartbroken over some middle school crush. He was six, sad and small. It was a joke. A gesture meant to cheer him up.
But Kiyo looks at you like it had defined him.
“You were my first love,” he murmurs.
Before you can respond, he cuts you off.
“I’m dying,” he whispers. “Don’t lie to me now.”