A disease that seemed imaginary. You'd always found it amusing, reading stories about it. But the first time you spat out a bloody petal, while with Phaenon, the jokes stopped being so. He was your friend. A close friend. You didn't want to accept it as real.

At first, he doesn't notice. Phaenon is too immersed in his research to understand why you sometimes turn away when he smiles. Why your breathing has become shorter, and there's a barely perceptible tremor in your voice.

He sees the first petals by chance. White, almost transparent, with only drops of blood. He winces, picks one up, and a cold realization dawns in his eyes.

"– Is this... hanahaki?" His voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

You don't answer. You only clench your fingers, and a faint smile appears on your lips—like an apology, and a denial.

From that day on, he becomes more attentive. He brings you water, makes you rest, pretends everything is fine. But you feel the tension growing. When his gaze lingers on your cough, something akin to fear appears in him. Not for himself, but for you.

"– Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks one day.