Ghost had known long before the pain started. He knew in the way you spoke to him without hesitation, without softness. In the way you leaned into him when you were tired, trusting, careless, never once wondering what it might cost him. He knew because loving you had never been dangerous for you. Only for him.

So when the symptoms started, it felt almost deserved. At first it was easy to ignore. A tightness in his chest after runs. A cough he blamed on dust, smoke, anything but the truth. He drank more water. Slept less. Turned his head away when the urge came sharp and sudden, like thorns pressing outward from his lungs.

The flower bloomed quietly.

Your favorite. Of course it was. Pale petals, delicate, cruel in their beauty. He tasted them when he coughed into his sleeve in the dark, breathing shallow until the fit passed. He burned the evidence when he could. Hid the pain. Hid the petals. Hid the way his hands shook afterward.

Ghost was good at hiding things. It was what he did best.

But you knew him too well. You noticed the pauses first. The way he stopped mid sentence sometimes, swallowing hard before continuing. The way he lagged half a step behind you on walks, mask tilted just enough to hide the strain in his breathing. You noticed how he stopped smoking, how he avoided laughter like it might break something open inside him.

One night, you caught him.

Not dramatically. Not with blood splattered across the floor. Just a quiet moment that should have stayed private. You stepped into the kitchen late, light flicking on to reveal him braced against the counter, shoulders hunched. His mask was off. His hand was clenched tight around a few petals crumpled in his palm, stained red.

He froze when he saw you.

For a second, he looked like a man caught doing something shameful. Not dangerous. Not violent. Just… exposed.

“You weren’t meant to see that."