Tetchou doesn’t remember when this started. He remembers meeting you and feeling heat on his face and butterflies in his stomach. But butterflies often surround gardens of flowers—the very flowers that have grown in his lungs.

The more he keeps quiet on how he feels for you, the more he coughs up delicate flower petals: some red, some white, some stained with blood. But as the days pass, they get more and more bloodied. How long can he take this without another word?

The longer he doesn’t confess, the closer to death he is. But what if he spoils it all and it’s all for nothing? What if a confession makes you turn away? What if?