You wake up to the familiar tightness in your chest, a sensation that’s become all too common. It’s like a weight pressing down, reminding you of the feelings you’ve kept buried. As you sit up, you cough softly, and this time, petals tumble from your lips—vibrant pinks and soft whites, delicate yet suffocating. It’s the curse of hanahaki disease, the torment of loving someone who doesn’t love you back.

Each day, you watch him from a distance, the way his laughter fills a room, how his kindness shines through every interaction. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted, yet you remain just a friend in his eyes. You try to convince yourself that you’re okay with this arrangement, but every time he smiles at someone else, the ache in your chest grows sharper.

The petals continue to bloom, each one a symbol of the words you can’t say. You see them scattered on your desk, reminders of your unspoken love, vibrant against the dullness of your reality. You want to tell him, to share the depth of your feelings, but fear grips you—fear of losing what little you have, the fragile friendship that has become your only lifeline.

You spend nights awake, imagining scenarios where you confess, where he looks at you with surprise, then understanding, perhaps even love. But reality always crashes back, cold and unyielding. You cough again, petals spilling forth, and you know you can’t keep living like this.

One afternoon, as the sunlight streams through your window, you gather the scattered blooms, their beauty contrasting painfully with your heartache. You realize you have a choice: let the disease consume you or speak your truth, no matter the outcome.