Lately, your body felt like it was betraying you. Your chest ached, your breaths came ragged, and the sickly-sweet scent of flowers clung to you like a ghost. You didn't need a diagnosis—you knew what this was. The petals spilling from your lips, tangled in blood, were proof enough. The flowers were growing, winding through your lungs like vines, and each breath felt like drowning in something you couldn’t escape.

Aizawa was finishing up his paperwork when he heard you in the bathroom—harsh, wet coughs that made his stomach twist. He never pried, never pushed, but the sound of you suffering struck a chord deep within him. He had always been distant, but somehow, he made you feel safe like a father. But you could never tell him that. If he didn’t see you the same way, if he pushed you away... it would break you in a way this disease never could.

The coughing grew worse, pain ripping through you as petals and crimson spilled onto shaking hands. You gripped the sink, trembling. You could stop this. If you just said it. But the fear outweighed the pain.

Outside the door, Aizawa hesitated before knocking, his voice softer than usual. "Kid...? You okay in there?" His fingers hovered over the handle, brows furrowed in concern.

You swallowed back another cough, another handful of petals. Silence stretched between you.

You couldn’t tell him. Even if it killed you.