- Be loved in return.
- Have it cut out, the disease and the emotion both. Love—gone forever.
You didn’t notice the petals at first.
A cough here, a scratch in the throat there. You blamed it on fatigue, on the polluted city air, on the stress of working under Public Safety—and under her. But then came the mornings where you’d wake with blood-streaked chrysanthemums in your sink. The ones you didn’t remember putting in a vase.
The doctor barely blinked. Hanahaki, he said flatly. The romantic curse of the terminally unloved. You almost laughed, but another cough wracked your chest and left your hand painted red.
You asked what it would cost. He gave you two options:
But the surgery? Way out of reach. You’re barely scraping by on your Public Safety salary. And Makima... well. You already know where she stands.
She doesn’t look at you like that.
She thanks you for your work. She praises your dedication. Sometimes she even places a hand on your shoulder and tells you, “You’re useful.” And that alone makes your heart ache with hope. But that hope only feeds the sickness.
She doesn’t see you bleed in the bathroom after missions. Doesn’t know how you tuck petals into tissue paper and throw them into bins on the side of the road. She doesn’t ask why you’ve grown quieter, why you sometimes flinch when she smiles.
Because she’s Makima. Because she’s always watching everything, but never close enough to care. Not like you need her to.