Cherry Blossoms in Winter

Sangah stares at it—perfect petals, pale pink fading to white at the edges, delicate as tissue paper. Beautiful, if not for the blood streaking across its surface. If not for the fact that it just came out of her lungs.

Three in the morning. The apartment is silent except for the running water, washing crimson flow down the drain. Her hands shake as she picks up the flower—not petals this time, a full bloom, stem and all—and sets it carefully on the counter next to the others. Four tonight. She's been coughing for an hour.

Through the thin wall, she hears movement. Dior's room. She's awake.

Sangah holds her breath, waiting. Listening. The footsteps pad toward the bathroom, then pause. She can almost feel Dior standing on the other side of the door, debating whether to knock.

Don't, Sangah thinks. Please don't.

The footsteps retreat.

Sangah releases the breath, and it comes out shuddering. She grips the edge of the sink, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She barely recognizes herself. She'd always been on the quieter side of things—the kind of person who observed more than she spoke—but the girl staring back at her now looked like something further than quiet. Hollow cheeks, dark circles carved deep beneath her eyes, lips stained faintly pink. She's lost weight. Everyone's noticed. Especially Dior.

Her phone sits on the counter, screen dark. But she knows what's underneath it: the surgery appointment card. One week away. Seven days.

Seven days until she forgets everything.

She picks up one of the cherry blossoms, holds it up to the light. Even now, dying, she can't help but think how beautiful it is. How fitting. Of all the flowers her body could have chosen to kill her with, of course it's these.

Of course it's cherry blossoms.

Her throat itches. She coughs, soft and controlled, catching more petals in her palm. These ones are wilted, brown at the edges. Dying faster than she is.

It started in spring, she thinks, staring at the petals. It should end in spring too.

But she won't make it to spring.

She closes her eyes, and she's back there—February, still cold, the cherry trees bare and waiting. Back before the flowers, before the blood, before the choice between dying and forgetting.

Back when she didn't know that loving someone could grow roots.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The park was ugly in February.

Sangah had never noticed before, but walking through it with Dior on a grey Tuesday afternoon, she couldn't ignore it. The cherry trees stood skeletal against the sky, branches black and twisted, the ground beneath them frozen mud and dead leaves. In six weeks, this place would transform into something out of a postcard—pink and white petals, festival crowds, couples taking photos. But now? Now it looked like what it was: trees, dormant and waiting.

"I can't wait for the cherry blossoms," Dior said beside her—bright-eyed even in the grey February cold—adjusting her backpack. "We should have a picnic when they bloom. Like, a proper one. With actual food, not convenience store kimbap."

"We always say that," Sangah pointed out.

"And we always end up with convenience store kimbap." Dior laughed, her breath misting in the cold air. "But this year's different. Senior year. Last chance."

Last chance. The words settled heavy in Sangah's chest.

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, their usual route from campus to their apartment. Three years of this walk, and Sangah could do it blind. Past the empty fountain, through the park, left at the convenience store, up two flights of stairs to apartment 3B where they'd lived together since late freshman year.

"I'm so glad we're doing this together," Dior said suddenly.

Sangah glanced at her. "Walking home?"

"All of it. University. This final semester. Life." Dior smiled, small and genuine. "I don't think I'd survive without you."

Something in Sangah's chest shifted.

They'd reached the bench—their bench, the one they always passed but rarely sat on. Dior collapsed onto it with a dramatic sigh.

"Five minutes. My legs are dead. Education majors shouldn't have to walk this much."

Sangah sat beside her, and Dior immediately leaned into her shoulder. Natural as breathing. They'd done this a thousand times—Dior taking up space in Sangah's orbit, Sangah letting her.

The afternoon light was fading, golden hour stretching the shadows long across the park. Dior's hair caught the light, turned amber and warm. She was the kind of person who looked beautiful without trying, which Sangah had always known, distantly, the way you know things you're not ready to look at directly.

Her eyes were closed, face relaxed, trusting. The curve of her cheek, the small scar at the tip of her right eyebrow from when she fell from her bike in middle school, the way her lips curved up even in rest.

Oh, Sangah thought.

The realization hit quiet and certain, like something that had always been true but she'd refused to see.

Oh no.

I'm in love with her.

Her throat tightened immediately, instinctively. She swallowed hard, trying to push the thought down, bury it, pretend she hadn't just—

Dior shifted against her shoulder, settling in deeper. "This is nice," she murmured.

Sangah's throat constricted again, painful this time. She swallowed again.

"Yeah," she managed. "Nice."

Above them, the bare cherry branches reached toward the sky like veins. In six weeks, they'd bloom. Sangah wondered if she'd be able to look at them the same way.

She wondered if she'd be able to look at Dior the same way.

She already knew the answer.

That night, alone in her room with just a wall separating her from Dior, Sangah lay awake with her hand pressed to her throat. It felt tight. Scratchy. Like something was lodged there that wouldn't go down no matter how many times she swallowed.

She told herself it was nothing.

She told herself it would pass.

She was wrong on both counts.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

March arrived with warming weather and the promise of bloom.

The itch in Sangah's throat arrived with it.

At first, she blamed allergies. Spring always brought pollen, dust, the general assault of nature waking up after winter. She bought lozenges from the convenience store, drank more water, cleared her throat constantly during lectures.

"You getting sick?" Dior asked one evening, looking up from her laptop where she was working on lesson plans at their small kitchen table.

Sangah shook her head, reaching for her water bottle. "Just allergies."

"Mmm." Dior didn't look convinced, but she returned to her work.

The itch got worse.

By the second week of March, Sangah was hyperaware of her throat at all times. The constant tickle, the need to cough, the way swallowing didn't help. She started carrying cough drops everywhere, the cheap ones that tasted like medicine and did nothing.

She also became hyperaware of Dior.

It was like the realization on the bench had flipped a switch. Suddenly, Sangah noticed everything. The way Dior hummed while making coffee in the morning. How she always stole the better shower time. The habit she had of touching Sangah's shoulder when she walked past, casual and thoughtless. The sound of her laugh—really heard it, noticed the way it made something warm bloom in Sangah's chest.

And every time she noticed, every time that warmth bloomed, her throat would itch.

"You sure you're okay?" This from Hyunwoo, who'd been her lab partner since freshman year—the kind of person whose steadiness you didn't notice until you needed it. He was watching Sangah clear her throat for the third time in ten minutes during their biomedical engineering lab session.

"Fine," Sangah said. "Spring allergies."

Hoseok leaned over from his station across the bench, already frowning. "You should get that checked if it doesn't go away." He said it the way he said most things—direct, no preamble.

It didn't.

The cherry trees began to bloom in earnest by late March. First a few brave flowers, then suddenly the entire park exploded into pink and white. The transformation was almost violent in its speed and beauty. One day bare branches, the next day drowning in petals.

Dior was ecstatic.

"Look at them!" she said, dragging Sangah through the park on their way home. "Aren't they perfect?"

They were. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of blossoms, casting everything in soft pink light. Petals drifted down like snow, catching in Dior's hair, on her shoulders. The air smelled sweet and green.

"We have to come back this weekend," Dior continued. "The festival starts Friday. There's supposed to be food stalls and everything."

Sangah watched a petal land on Dior's nose. Without thinking, she reached up and brushed it away.

Dior's eyes met hers, surprised and pleased. "Thanks."

Sangah's throat burned.

She coughed into her elbow, sudden and violent.

"Seriously, you need to see a doctor about that," Dior said, frowning now.

"It's just—" Cough. "Pollen."

That night, Sangah stood at her window looking out at the park. Even in the dark, she could see the pale ghosts of the cherry trees, heavy with bloom. Beautiful. Everyone loved them. Dior loved them.

Her throat itched so badly she wanted to claw it out.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The festival weekend arrived with perfect weather and massive crowds.

Dior insisted they go Saturday afternoon. "Come on, it's our last year! We have to do the full cherry blossom experience."

The park was transformed. Food stalls lined the paths, selling tteokbokki and hotteok and every kind of street food imaginable. Families spread blankets under the trees for picnics. Couples took selfies, the flowers providing the perfect romantic backdrop. Music played from somewhere, traditional instruments mixing with laughter and conversation.

It was loud. Vibrant. Celebrating spring and renewal and fresh starts.

Sangah felt like she was drowning.

"This is amazing!" Dior shouted over the noise, grabbing Sangah's hand to pull her through the crowd.

The touch sent electricity up Sangah's arm. Her throat constricted.

They bought bungeoppang and found a spot under one of the larger trees. Not quite sitting—too crowded for that—but leaning against the trunk, watching the chaos of celebration around them.

"Happy?" Sangah asked.

Dior turned to her, smiling so bright it hurt to look at. "So happy. This is perfect." A petal landed in her hair. She didn't notice.

Sangah noticed everything.

The exact shade of pink the petal was. The way it contrasted with Dior's dark hair. How the festival lights caught in her eyes. The curve of her mouth. The small bit of red bean paste at the corner of her lips.

"You have—" Sangah reached up without thinking, thumb brushing the corner of Dior's mouth.

Dior went very still.

They were close. Too close. The noise of the festival faded to background static. Just them under the cherry tree, petals falling around them like blessings, Sangah's thumb still touching Dior's lips.

"Thanks," Dior whispered.

Sangah's throat was on fire. She pulled her hand back, coughed hard into her elbow.

"Sorry," she managed. "The pollen—"

"Right." Dior's voice sounded strange. "Pollen."

They stayed at the festival another hour, but something had shifted. The air between them felt charged, uncertain. When they finally left, walking home through streets still scattered with petals, they didn't talk.

That night, the itch in Sangah's throat kept her awake until dawn.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

April deepened into May, and the cherry blossoms began to fall.

The petals carpeted the park paths, collected in drifts against walls and benches, turned brown and rotted in the rain. The trees were still beautiful—green leaves emerging now—but the spectacular bloom was over. The festival crowds dispersed. Life returned to normal.

Except Sangah's throat.

The itch had evolved into a cough. Dry, persistent, irritating. It interrupted her lectures, her study sessions, her sleep. She bought actual cough medicine this time, the kind that was supposed to suppress it. Didn't work.

"You sound like you're dying," said Jooheon, who was sprawled in his chair the way he always was—too comfortable for a library, somehow making everyone around him feel at ease anyway.

They were at their usual table—third floor, farthest from the door, the one nobody else bothered to climb the stairs for. The four of them drowning in end-of-semester assignments, the way they had been every finals season since sophomore year.

"Thanks," Sangah said, voice rough.

Yeojoo looked up from her laptop. She had the kind of face that didn't hide things well—concern written plainly across it now. "Seriously though, that's not normal. You've been coughing for over a month now."

"It's just—"

"If you say allergies one more time," Dior interrupted, not looking up from her education textbook, "I'm dragging you to the hospital myself."

"It's probably bronchitis or something," Sangah said. "It'll pass."

It got worse.

The cough became rougher, deeper, like something was trying to claw its way out of her chest. Her throat was raw. She started losing her voice by the end of the day. And always, constantly, the feeling that something was lodged in her throat that wouldn't come up no matter how hard she coughed.

Finals week approached, and with it, the worst of it.

Sangah was in the library alone—rare, but Dior had a late class—trying to focus on her biomedical engineering thesis proposal. The words blurred on her screen. Her throat ached. She coughed into her hand, dry and painful.

Coughed again.

Her chest seized. This was different. Rougher. Something was actually coming up this time.

She coughed violently into her hand, eyes watering.

When the fit finally passed, she looked down.

Her palm was wet. For a second, she thought it was blood.

It wasn't.

Petals.

Three of them, perfect and pink-white, delicate as tissue paper.

Cherry blossom petals.

Sangah stared at them. Her brain tried to process, to rationalize. I must have inhaled them during the festival. They've been stuck in my lungs. That's—that makes sense, right?

Except the festival was over a month ago.

And these petals looked fresh.

She closed her hand quickly, looking around. The library was mostly empty, and nobody was paying attention to her. She shoved the petals into her pocket and grabbed her things, thesis forgotten.

At home, she locked herself in her room and examined the petals under her desk lamp. Definitely cherry blossoms. Definitely fresh—no browning, no decay, still soft and fragile.

She opened her laptop and typed: "coughing up flower petals."

The results were sparse. Some folklore, fantasy fiction, a few obscure medical references. She clicked on one—a medical journal from 2019.

Hanahaki Disease…associated with unexpressed romantic feelings…

She closed the laptop.

"That's insane," she said out loud to her empty room.

Her throat itched.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The coughing fits became more frequent.

Sangah started carrying tissues everywhere, coughing into them and throwing them away quickly before anyone could see. Most of the time it was just a dry cough. But sometimes—more and more often—there were petals.

She kept them in a ziplock bag in her desk drawer. Evidence. Proof she wasn't losing her mind.

By the end of May, she had dozens.

"Okay, that's it," Hoseok said, watching Sangah cough through yet another engineering lab session. "We're taking you to the doctor."

"I'm fine—"

"You're not fine," Hyunwoo cut in, unusually stern. "You've been coughing for two months. That's not normal."

Sangah wanted to argue, but she was so tired. Tired of the coughing, the lying, the pretending everything was okay when clearly it wasn't.

"Fine," she said. "I'll make an appointment."

She did, for the following week. Hyunwoo and Hoseok insisted on coming with her, checking their schedules to find a time that worked for all three of them.

The night before the appointment, Dior knocked on Sangah's bedroom door.

"Come in," Sangah called, quickly shoving the ziplock bag of petals into her drawer.

Dior entered, hovering in the doorway. She looked uncertain, which was rare for her.

"You'd tell me if something was really wrong, right?" Dior asked quietly.

Sangah's chest tightened. "Of course."

"Because you've been so distant lately. And the cough—" Dior bit her lip. "I'm worried about you."

I'm in love with you, Sangah thought. I'm coughing up flowers and I'm in love with you and I can't tell you and it's killing me.

"It's probably just bronchitis," she said instead. "I'm seeing a doctor tomorrow."

"Good." Dior stepped further into the room, sat on the edge of Sangah's bed. "I know finals are stressful, but you can talk to me. About anything."

The irony was excruciating.

"I know," Sangah said.

Dior reached out, squeezed her hand. The touch burned.

"We're going to get through this semester together, okay?" Dior said. "Like always."

Sangah's throat constricted. She felt the cough building, fought to suppress it.

"Like always," she managed.

After Dior left, Sangah coughed into her hands for ten minutes straight. Five more petals. She added them to the bag and wondered how much longer she could keep doing this.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The doctor's office was sterile and cold and made Sangah want to leave immediately.

But Hyunwoo had his hand on her shoulder—solid, unhurried, the way he always was—and Hoseok was sitting on her other side, leg bouncing with barely contained anxiety. They'd both cleared their schedules for this without being asked twice.

"Im Sangah?" the nurse called.

Hyunwoo squeezed her shoulder. "Want us to come in?"

Sangah shook her head. "I'll be fine."

She wasn't fine.

The GP was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes who listened patiently as Sangah explained her symptoms. Persistent cough, over two months now, dry throat, fatigue.

"Any other symptoms?" the doctor asked. "Fever? Chest pain?"

"No fever. Some chest pain when I cough hard."

"Have you been around anyone who's been sick? Any exposure to irritants?"

"No."

The doctor examined her throat, listened to her chest, took her temperature and blood pressure.

"Everything seems normal," she said, frowning slightly. "But a cough this persistent warrants further investigation. Have you noticed anything unusual? Anything you're coughing up?"

Sangah pulled the ziplock bag from her backpack.

The doctor stared at it. At the dozens of perfect pink-white cherry blossom petals inside.

"You're coughing these up?" she asked slowly.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"A few weeks. Maybe three."

The doctor took the bag, examined the petals closely. "Have you been eating them? Some kind of traditional remedy?"

"No. They just... appear. When I cough."

Silence. The doctor set the bag down, turned to her computer, typed something. Read. Typed more.

"I need to ask you something personal," she said finally, carefully. "And I know this will sound strange."

Sangah's heart rate picked up.

"Is there someone in your life you have romantic feelings for? Feelings that aren't reciprocated?"

The blood drained from Sangah's face.

"How did you—" Her mind drifted back to when she quickly looked up her symptoms after first coughing up the petals. She brushed it off as insanity.

The doctor turned her computer screen. Medical journal article. Hanahaki Disease: A Rare Psychosomatic Phenomenon.

"I've never seen a case myself," the doctor said. "But I've read about it. The symptoms match exactly. Persistent cough, flowers appearing in respiratory system, corresponding to..." She paused. "To significant emotional moments, usually involving the person in question."

Sangah couldn't speak.

"The cherry blossoms," the doctor continued gently. "Was there a significant moment involving them?"

Dior under the trees. Petals in her hair. 'This is perfect.' The touch at the corner of her lips.

Sangah nodded.

"I see." The doctor pulled out a prescription pad, wrote something. "I'm referring you to a specialist. Dr. Kazuya at Nexus Medical Center. He's one of the few doctors in the country who's actually treated this condition."

She handed Sangah the referral card.

"I won't lie to you," the doctor said. "This is serious. Hanahaki disease is rare, it's also progressive. Without treatment, it can be fatal."

"Fatal?"

"The flowers—the roots of them—grow in your lungs. Eventually they can obstruct breathing, damage cardiac tissue." She paused. "But there are treatment options. Dr. Kazuya will explain everything."

The doctor's expression was sympathetic. "I'm sorry you're going through this."

Sangah stared at the card in her hand. Dr. Kazuya. Nexus Medical Center. Rare Disease Specialist.

Sangah left the office in a daze. Hyunwoo and Hoseok stood up immediately when they saw her face.

"What happened?" Hoseok asked.

"We need to talk," Sangah said. "Not here."

They ended up at a coffee shop three blocks away. Sangah bought them drinks and led them to a corner table where no one could overhear.

Then she told them everything.

"The doctor diagnosed me with something called hanahaki disease," Sangah said, hands wrapped around her untouched coffee. She spelled it out for them. "She said she'd never seen a case herself. That it's extremely rare."

Hyunwoo and Hoseok exchanged glances—the kind that only happened between people who'd known each other long enough to have whole conversations without speaking.

"What is it?" Hoseok asked carefully.

Sangah pulled out the ziplock bag from her backpack, set it on the table between them.

They both leaned forward, staring at the contents.

"Are those—" Hoseok picked it up, held it up to the light. "Flower petals?"

"Cherry blossoms," Sangah confirmed. "I've been coughing them up since early June."

"That's not possible," Hyunwoo said, but he was still staring at the bag.

"I thought so too. I thought maybe I'd inhaled them during the festival, that they'd been stuck in my lungs somehow. But they keep coming. Fresh ones." Sangah's voice was quiet. "The doctor pulled up a medical journal article right in front of me. The symptoms match exactly—persistent cough, flowers appearing in the respiratory system."

"But how—" Hoseok started.

"She said it's psychosomatic. Unexpressed romantic feelings manifesting as physical symptoms." Sangah looked down at the petals. "The flowers correspond to significant emotional moments with the person."

Silence.

"What person?" Hyunwoo asked quietly.

Sangah didn't answer. Couldn't.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with understanding.

"Who?" Hoseok pressed gently.

Sangah's hands tightened around her coffee cup. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Dior," Hyunwoo whispered.

Sangah's eyes closed. That was answer enough.

"Oh, Sangah," Hoseok breathed.

"It was around February," Sangah said, voice barely audible. "Dior and I walked home together through the park and she said she was glad we were doing university together"

They nodded.

"We sat on that bench. The one under the cherry trees. And she leaned against me and said she wouldn't survive without me." Sangah's voice cracked. "That's when I realized. That I'm in love with her."

Neither of them said anything, just waited.

"And the moment I realized it—the exact moment—my throat tightened. Like something was squeezing it." Sangah touched her neck. "I swallowed the feeling down. Buried it. That's when it started. The itch in my throat. Constant. I thought it was allergies."

"But it got worse," Hoseok said.

"It turned into a cough. You both saw it—I've been coughing for months. And then the festival happened." She paused. "Dior dragged me there. The park was full of cherry blossoms. And she—she had petals in her hair and I reached up to brush them away and I touched her face and—"

Sangah stopped, unable to continue.

"That's when the cough got worse," Hyunwoo finished for her.

She nodded. "A few weeks later, I started coughing up the petals. The doctor said the flowers always correspond to the emotional catalyst. Cherry blossoms. Because of course it's cherry blossoms."

"What else did the doctor say?" Hoseok asked. "About the disease?"

Sangah took a shaky breath. "That it's progressive. The flowers grow from roots. Actual roots in my lungs. That eventually they can obstruct breathing, damage cardiac tissue."

"Jesus," Hoseok breathed.

"She said without treatment, it can be fatal."

The word dropped like a stone.

"Fatal," Hyunwoo repeated, face pale. "You could die from this?"

"Yes."

They sat in stunned silence.

"But there's treatment," Hoseok said, almost desperately. "Right? There should be. You can't—"

"She referred me to a specialist. Dr. Kazuya at Nexus Medical Center. One of the only doctors in the country who's actually treated this." Sangah pulled out the referral card, set it on the table. "She said he'll explain the options."

"Then call him," Hoseok said immediately. "Today. Right now."

"I will," Sangah said. "I just—I needed to tell you first. I needed someone else to know that I'm—"

Her voice broke.

"That I'm dying," she whispered. "Because I fell in love with my best friend and I can't tell her."

Hoseok reached across the table, grabbed her hand. "You're going to call the specialist. And you're going to get treated. Whatever the treatment is."

"You don't know what it is," Sangah said. "What if—"

"I don't care," Hoseok interrupted fiercely. "You're not dying from this."

Hyunwoo nodded. "When can you see the specialist?"

"I don't know. I haven't called yet."

"Then call," Hyunwoo said. "Now. We'll wait."

Sangah looked at them—her two friends, her protectors, looking at her with such fierce determination.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

She pulled out her phone and dialed the number on the referral card.

The receptionist at Nexus Medical Center answered on the third ring. Professional, efficient. Sangah explained she had a referral from her GP for Dr. Kazuya.

"One moment please."

Hyunwoo and Hoseok watched her, tense.

"The earliest appointment we have available is three weeks from now," the receptionist said. "July 26th at 2PM."

Three weeks. 21 days.

"That's too long," Hoseok said, loud enough for the receptionist to hear.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Kazuya is fully booked. This is a rare disease specialty—"

"I'll take it," Sangah said quietly.

"Are you sure?—"

"I'll take the appointment."

She confirmed the details, hung up.

"Three weeks," Hoseok said, looking stricken. "You said this is progressive—"

"It's fine," Sangah said, even though she had no idea if it was. "Three weeks isn't that long."

But Hyunwoo was frowning at her. "Promise us you'll go to that appointment."

"I promise."

"We mean it, Sangah," Hoseok added. "Don't talk yourself out of it."

"I won't. I promise."

They made her say it three more times before they believed her. Then they walked her home, one on each side like bodyguards, and she loved them for it even as she hated that they had to.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The next three weeks were strange.

Sangah found herself pulling away from Dior without meaning to. It was self-preservation, she told herself. The less time she spent with her, the less her throat hurt, the less she coughed.

Except Dior noticed.

And instead of giving her space, Dior pushed closer.

"Want to study together?" Dior would ask, appearing at Sangah's bedroom door.

"I'm kind of tired—"

"Perfect, we can just watch something then." And she'd be on Sangah's bed before Sangah could protest, pulling up a drama on her laptop.

Or Sangah would try to eat dinner alone in her room, and Dior would knock with two bowls of ramyeon. "Made too much. Help me finish it?"

Or Sangah would come home late from the library, hoping Dior would be asleep, only to find her curled up on the couch, waiting.

"You're avoiding me," Dior said one night, not looking up from her phone.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Dior's voice was quiet but firm. "And I don't know why, but I'm not letting you."

Sangah wanted to argue, but she was too tired. And honestly? Part of her was grateful. Even if every moment with Dior made her chest ache, even if every casual touch made her throat itch—she didn't want to lose this. Not yet.

One evening, about a week after booking the specialist appointment, Dior came home later than usual. Sangah was on the couch, pretending to study.

"Sorry I'm late," Dior said, dropping her bag by the door. "Got caught up talking to someone from my program."

"It's fine," Sangah said, not looking up from her textbook.

"His name's Hyungwon. He's in my curriculum development class." Dior sat down next to her, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Really nice guy. Quiet, but the kind of quiet that listens. Asked if I wanted to be partners for our semester project."

"That's good," Sangah managed.

"Yeah. It's about education reform, so it'll be a lot of work, but—" Dior paused. "It'll be nice to have someone to work with, you know? Since you've been so busy with your thesis."

There was no accusation in her voice, just a quiet observation. But Sangah heard it anyway.

After that, Dior mentioned Hyungwon occasionally. They'd meet to work on their project—coffee shops, the education building, sometimes the main library though never on the third floor where Sangah studied with their mutual friends.

"Hyungwon thinks we should focus on teacher training," Dior would say over dinner.

Or: "Hyungwon found this really interesting research paper—"

Sangah would nod, make appropriate responses, and try to ignore the way her throat tightened every time she heard his name.

It shouldn't have bothered her. Dior was allowed to have friends, to have project partners, to have people who weren't Sangah.

But it did bother her.

Especially as the weeks went on and Dior seemed to rely on him more.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Two weeks after the GP appointment, Sangah had a violent coughing fit in the living room.

She'd been trying to hold it back all evening—Dior was there, working on her laptop at the kitchen table. But her chest seized and suddenly she was doubled over, coughing so hard her eyes watered.

"Sangah!" Dior was at her side immediately, hand on her back.

Sangah tried to wave her off, tried to get to the bathroom, but the coughing wouldn't stop. She covered her mouth with her hands, felt something wet against her palm.

Finally, the fit passed. She was breathing hard, shaking.

"I'm fine," she started to say, but Dior grabbed her wrist.

"I thought you went to the doctor last week?"

Sangah looked up. She hadn't coughed up any petals—thank god. She could feel them lodged in her throat but they hadn't come out.

But when she met Dior's eyes, Dior's face was horrified.

"What?" Sangah asked.

"B-blood—you're coughing up blood?"

Sangah touched her lips. Her fingers came away red.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

"Nothing?" Dior's voice was rising, trembling. "Sangah, you're coughing up blood! How am I supposed to not worry?"

"It's fine. The doctor diagnosed me, they're just running some tests at the moment—"

"What kind of tests?"

"Just... respiratory stuff. Making sure it's not anything serious."

"You'd tell me if it was serious, right?" Dior's eyes were bright with unshed tears.

The lie tasted like copper. "Of course."

Dior didn't look convinced, but she nodded. She helped Sangah to the couch, went to get water and tissues.

When she came back, she sat right next to Sangah. Close. Their thighs touching.

"I'm staying here tonight," Dior said. It wasn't a question.

"You don't have to—"

"I'm staying."

And she did. They fell asleep on the couch together watching some drama neither of them paid attention to, Dior's head on Sangah's shoulder, her arm around Sangah's waist like she was afraid Sangah would disappear.

Sangah lay awake long after Dior's breathing evened out, feeling the warmth of her, the weight of her, memorizing every detail.

Even if every second pressed against Dior's soft body drew a sharp pain in her chest.

Even if she could feel the flowers growing.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Another week passed.

The coughing got worse. Sangah started carrying a water bottle everywhere, cough drops that didn't help, tissues she'd hide in her pockets.

Dior noticed everything.

But she also seemed... stretched thin. Worried about Sangah, stressed about her own coursework, spending more time on her project with Hyungwon.

"I'm meeting Hyungwon after class," she'd say. "We're behind on the research section."

Or: "Hyungwon's been really helpful. I don't know what I'd do without a partner for this project."

And once, quietly, when Sangah had been particularly distant: "Hyungwon asked if I was okay today. Said I seemed distracted."

Sangah looked up from her textbook. "What did you tell him?"

"That my best friend is sick and won't tell me what's wrong." Dior's voice was pointed. "He was a good listener."

Something twisted in Sangah's chest.

"That's good," she managed. "That you have someone to talk to."

"I'd rather talk to you."

Sangah didn't know what to say to that.

One evening, Sangah excused herself to cough in the bathroom. When she came back, Dior had paused the show they were watching.

"I'm worried about you," Dior said quietly.

"Don't be."

"How can I not be? You're getting worse. I can see it." Her voice cracked. "You're my best friend. If something's wrong—"

"Nothing's wrong," Sangah interrupted. "Just a persistent cough. It happens."

"For four months?"

Had it really been that long?

"I'm seeing a specialist soon," Sangah said. "They'll figure it out."

She could see Dior wanting to push, to demand the truth. But Dior held her tongue, respecting boundaries, even when it frustrated her.

"Okay," she said finally. Her hand found Sangah's, squeezed it. "But I'm here. Whatever it is."

That's the problem, Sangah thought. You're here, and I love you, and it's killing me.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The same week, Sangah saw Dior and Hyungwon at the campus café.

She'd been on her way to the library when she spotted them through the window. They were at a corner table, and Dior was talking about something, gesturing with her hands the way she did when she was explaining a concept. Hyungwon was listening with a patient expression, occasionally nodding or asking questions.

Then Dior said something and smiled—not the forced, worried smile she'd been giving Sangah lately, but something lighter. Not quite her full laugh, but closer to it than Sangah had seen in weeks.

Hyungwon seemed to be helping her in a way Sangah couldn't anymore.

Something in Sangah's chest twisted violently.

She turned and walked the other way, took the long route to the library.

That night, she coughed into her hands for twenty minutes straight.

When the fit finally passed, she looked down at her palm.

A bud. Tight, compact, the petals still furled together. Heavier than the loose petals, more solid.

Blood covered half of it.

She stared at it, this impossible thing her body had created, and felt fear settle deep in her bones.

The specialist appointment was in three days.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

July 26th arrived hot and oppressive.

Sangah took the subway to Nexus Medical Center alone. She'd told Hyunwoo and Hoseok she could handle it, that she didn't want to waste their time.

The truth was, she didn't want witnesses to whatever Dr. Kazuya was going to tell her.

Nexus Medical Center was bigger and more intimidating than the local clinic. Dr. Kazuya's office was on the seventh floor, tucked away in a wing labeled "Rare Disease Specialists."

The waiting room was empty except for her. Sangah sat in one of the sterile chairs, clutching the referral card and the ziplock bag of petals and buds. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant ding of elevators.

"Im Sangah?"

A nurse appeared in the doorway. Kind face, professional smile. Sangah followed her down a corridor lined with doors, each one labeled with different specialties she'd never heard of.

Dr. Kazuya's office was at the end.

Dr. Kazuya himself was older, maybe sixty, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and a clinical manner that somehow managed to be both distant and compassionate. His office was neat, organized—walls lined with medical texts and framed certificates.

"Im Sangah?" He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Please, sit."

Sangah sat, the ziplock bag heavy in her lap.

Dr. Kazuya reviewed her file, pulling up what looked like the referral notes from the GP. "Referred for suspected hanahaki disease."

"Yes."

He looked up at her, studying her face. "How are you feeling today?"

"Tired," Sangah admitted. Her voice was hoarse. "The cough is worse."

"Tell me about your symptoms. Start from the beginning."

Sangah took a breath—it rattled in her chest.

"Late February. My throat started feeling tight. Like something was caught there." She touched her neck. "I thought it was just—I don't know. Stress, maybe. But it got worse. Turned into an itch. Then a cough."

"When did the cough start?"

"March. Early March. I thought it was allergies at first."

Dr. Kazuya nodded, taking notes. "And the flowers?"

Sangah pulled out the ziplock bag, set it on his desk.

He picked it up, examining the contents carefully. Dozens of petals, some still pink-white and fresh, others dried and brown. Three buds, tightly furled.

"Cherry blossoms," he observed. "When did these start appearing?"

"The petals—early June. The buds—" She paused. "Last week."

"And there's been blood?"

"Yes. For the past two weeks."

Dr. Kazuya set the bag down, made more notes. "The referral mentioned a significant emotional moment involving cherry blossoms. Can you tell me about it?"

Sangah's hands tightened in her lap.

"There's a park near our apartment. Cherry trees line the paths. In April, they bloomed. There was a festival." She could see it in her mind—the pink-white canopy, petals everywhere, the noise and celebration. "My roommate—she wanted to go. We spent the afternoon there."

"And?"

"She had petals in her hair. I reached up to brush them away. Our faces were close and I—" Sangah stopped, unable to continue.

"You touched her," Dr. Kazuya said gently. It wasn't a question.

Sangah nodded. "Just for a second. The corner of her mouth. There was red bean paste and I just—" She pressed her palm against her eyes. "The cough got so much worse after that. I couldn't stop thinking about it. About her."

Dr. Kazuya was quiet for a moment, letting her collect herself.

"This roommate," he said. "Is she the attachment figure? The person your feelings are directed toward?"

"Yes."

"And she doesn't know about your feelings?"

"No."

"Why not?"

The question was simple, but the answer was impossible.

"Because she's my best friend," Sangah said quietly. "Because telling her would ruin everything. Because even if she somehow felt the same way—which she doesn't—I don't want her to feel responsible for this. For me being sick."

Dr. Kazuya nodded, understanding. "Let's do a physical examination. I need to listen to your chest, check your throat."

The examination was thorough. Dr. Kazuya listened to her lungs, asked her to breathe deeply (which triggered a coughing fit), examined her throat with a light and tongue depressor.

"I'm going to order a chest X-ray," he said. "The imaging will show us how established the root system is. It's important for determining treatment options and timeline."

Twenty minutes later, Sangah was in a different room, standing in front of an X-ray machine. The technician positioned her, told her to hold still, hold her breath.

The machine whirred.

She was brought back to Dr. Kazuya's office to wait for the results. The minutes stretched. Sangah stared at the medical texts on the shelves, unable to focus on the titles.

Finally, Dr. Kazuya returned with a tablet displaying her X-rays.

"Come look at this," he said, turning the screen toward her.

Sangah stood, moved to his side of the desk.

The X-ray image was startling. Her lungs showed up as dark masses, her ribs as white curves. But threaded through everything were white tendrils—delicate and branching, like the cherry trees themselves.

"These are the roots," Dr. Kazuya said, pointing. "See here, and here? They've infiltrated your bronchial tubes, which explains the persistent cough. And here—" He traced a line with his finger. "They're approaching your cardiac tissue."

Sangah stared at the image. Physical proof of her love, growing wild and deadly inside her.

"How long?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"When did you say the initial symptoms started?"

"February. Late February."

"Five months." He zoomed in on a section near her heart. "These roots are well-established. More advanced than I'd hoped, given the timeline."

"What does that mean?"

Dr. Kazuya returned to his chair, gestured for her to sit as well. He looked at her with that careful compassion doctors develop when delivering bad news.

"It means we're past early intervention. The disease has progressed to a critical stage."

Sangah's hands gripped the armrests.

"Let me explain hanahaki disease and your treatment options," Dr. Kazuya said. "I want you to understand everything before making any decisions."

He pulled up a document on his computer, turned the screen so she could see. Medical diagrams, charts, text she couldn't focus on.

"Hanahaki disease is extremely rare. In my twenty years specializing in rare diseases, I've treated exactly seven cases. The mechanism is poorly understood—a psychosomatic manifestation where unexpressed romantic feelings create physical symptoms. The flowers and roots are real, growing from your respiratory system."

He pulled up another image—a diagram of lungs with root structures.

"Without treatment, the roots will continue growing. They'll spread through your lungs, wrap around your heart, eventually constrict your cardiac muscle. You'll experience increasing chest pain, difficulty breathing, irregular heartbeat." He paused. "Death usually occurs within six to twelve months of initial symptoms."

The word "death" hung in the air.

"You're at five months now. Given how established these roots are—" He gestured at her X-ray. "I estimate you have four to six months remaining before the disease becomes critical. Possibly less."

Four to six months.

Sangah couldn't breathe.

"There are two treatment options," Dr. Kazuya continued. "I want to explain both thoroughly."

He leaned back in his chair.

"The first option is surgical removal. We perform a thoracic surgery to remove the root system from your lungs and cardiac tissue. The success rate is high—around ninety-four percent—if we perform the surgery before the roots fully integrate with your heart."

He paused.

"However, there is a significant side effect. Complete and permanent memory erasure of the attachment figure."

Sangah's breath caught.

"Everything?" she asked. "Every memory?"

"Everything," Dr. Kazuya confirmed. "Her name, her face, every interaction you've ever had. To you, she'll be a complete stranger." He paused. "Some patients report feeling confused about gaps in their personal history—missing years, unexplained friendships with mutual acquaintances. But the person themselves is entirely forgotten. It's as if they never existed in your life."

Sangah felt dizzy.

"Why?" she managed. "Why does the surgery do that?"

"We don't fully understand the mechanism. The prevailing theory is that the roots don't just grow in your lungs—they integrate with your neural pathways, forming connections in the parts of your brain associated with memory and attachment. When we remove the roots, those connections are severed." He showed her another diagram. "It's not selective. We can't remove the disease and keep the memories. It's all or nothing."

"And there's no way around it?"

"No. Every patient who's undergone the surgery has experienced complete memory loss of their attachment figure."

Sangah's hands were shaking.

"The second option," Dr. Kazuya continued, "is reciprocation. If the attachment figure genuinely returns your romantic feelings—and this must be mutual, genuine, and expressed—the disease reverses naturally. The roots wither and dissolve, the flowers cease. Recovery typically happens within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and there are no side effects."

Hope flickered in Sangah's chest.

"How often does that work?"

Dr. Kazuya's expression turned sympathetic. "In documented cases? About fifteen percent. But that number is likely skewed. Most people with hanahaki have feelings for someone who doesn't feel the same way, or who's unavailable—that's usually why the feelings were suppressed in the first place. And people who are successfully cured by reciprocation don't always report it to medical authorities. They simply get better and move on with their lives."

"So it could be higher?"

"It could be. But I can't give you false hope. The reality is that reciprocation is rare, and—" He paused. "If you confess and the feelings aren't mutual, the disease accelerates. Rapidly. Rejection often proves fatal within weeks."

Weeks.

Sangah felt like she was falling.

"So I have three choices," she said slowly. "Get surgery and forget her completely. Confess and either be cured or die quickly. Or do nothing and die slowly."

"Yes."

She laughed—a broken, bitter sound. "Some choices."

Dr. Kazuya gave her time to process, watching her with that careful compassion.

"I know this is overwhelming," he said finally. "These aren't easy options. That's why I want to give you time to think about it."

He pulled out a calendar.

"I'm scheduling a follow-up appointment for two months from now—late September. That gives you time to consider your options, but also allows me to monitor your progression. If the roots advance too quickly, we may need to move up the timeline."

He handed her a folder—thick with paperwork, consent forms, information packets.

"If you choose surgery, we should perform it within the next two months. After that, the risk becomes too high—the roots will be too integrated with your cardiac tissue to safely remove."

Two months to decide.

"What do most people choose?" Sangah asked quietly.

"Surgery," Dr. Kazuya said. "It's the safest option. Losing memories is traumatic, but you'd be alive. You'd heal. Eventually, you'd build a new life."

"Without remembering the person who made me want to live in the first place."

Dr. Kazuya had no answer for that.

He stood, extended his hand. "I know this is a lot to take in. Please, take the time you need. But don't wait too long. Your health will continue to decline."

Sangah shook his hand, took the folder.

"One more thing," Dr. Kazuya said as she reached the door. "Have you told anyone else about this? Family? Friends?"

"Two friends. They know about the diagnosis."

"Good. You shouldn't go through this alone." He paused. "And the attachment figure? Your roommate?"

"She doesn't know."

"Are you planning to tell her?"

Sangah thought about Dior—worried, scared, begging Sangah to tell her what was wrong.

"No," she said. "I can't."

Dr. Kazuya nodded, though something in his expression said he disagreed with that choice.

"Take care of yourself, Sangah. I'll see you in September."

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Sangah walked through the hospital corridors in a daze. Took the elevator down. Stepped out into the oppressive heat.

She made it to a bench outside the hospital entrance before her legs gave out.

She sat down heavily, the folder clutched in her lap. Stared at nothing. People walked past—visitors, doctors, nurses going about their day. Normal people with normal problems.

For a long moment, she just sat there. Trying to process. Trying to breathe.

Then she pulled out her phone, looked at the X-ray images Dr. Kazuya had sent her. The white tendrils wrapped around her lungs, reaching for her heart. Physical proof that loving Dior was killing her.

The tears came suddenly, violently.

She pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs, but they came anyway. Hard, ugly crying that shook her entire body. The grief of it all finally catching up—that she'd fallen in love with her best friend, that she'd never be able to tell her, that she had to choose between dying or forgetting the person who made her life worth living.

Or risking everything on a fifteen percent chance that would probably just kill her faster.

People were staring. She didn't care.

A coughing fit seized her. She doubled over, coughing into her hands, trying to muffle the sound.

When it finally passed, she looked down at her palm.

A full bud, slick with blood.

She stared at it—this perfect, terrible thing her love had created.

Her phone buzzed.

Dior

how are you feeling today? want me to pick up anything on my way home?

The simple kindness of it broke something in her. Fresh tears spilled over.

She didn't know how long she sat there on that bench—minutes, maybe longer. The sun beat down. Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it.

Finally, hands still shaking, she picked up her phone and called Hyunwoo.

He answered on the first ring. "How did it go?"

"Where are you?" Sangah asked, and her voice came out broken, barely a whisper. "Can you—can you come? Both of you?"

"What happened?" Concern sharpened his voice. "Sangah—"

"Please. I can't—I need—" She couldn't finish.

"Where are you?"

"Nexus Medical Center. Outside the main entrance. There's a bench—"

"We're on our way. Don't move. Stay right there."

The line went dead.

Sangah set her phone down and stared at the bud in her other palm. At the blood. At the evidence of her dying.

And waited.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

They arrived forty minutes later, found her still sitting on the bench outside the hospital entrance. She must have looked terrible—eyes swollen, face blotchy, the folder clutched in white-knuckled hands.

Hyunwoo sat down on one side of her, Hoseok on the other. Neither of them said anything at first, just their presence bracketing her, solid and steady.

"Tell us," Hyunwoo said finally.

So she did.

She told them about the X-rays, the white tendrils wrapped around her lungs and heart. About the timeline—four to six months, maybe less. About having to decide within two months before surgery became too risky.

About the choices.

"Surgery removes the roots," she said, voice flat and hoarse. "94% success rate. But I'll forget her. Completely. Every memory, every moment. Dior will be a complete stranger."

"But you'd be alive," Hoseok said.

"Or reciprocation. If she loves me back, if it's mutual and expressed, the disease reverses. No side effects."

"Then tell her—" Hoseok started.

"15% success rate," Sangah interrupted. "And if she doesn't feel the same way, if I confess and she rejects me, the disease accelerates. I'd die within weeks."

Silence.

"Or I do nothing and die slowly over the next few months."

"That's not a choice," Hyunwoo said firmly. "You're getting the surgery."

"And forgetting her?"

"But you'd be alive," Hoseok repeated, almost desperately. "Sangah, you'd be alive. You could have a future—"

"Without remembering the person who made me want a future in the first place?" Sangah looked at him. "Everyone will remember her except me. You'll remember her. Our friends will remember her. She'll remember me. But I'll look at her and see a stranger."

"Better than being dead," Hoseok insisted.

"Is it?"

"Yes!" His voice rose. "Yes, it is! How is this even a question?"

"Because you're not the one who has to live with it," Sangah said quietly. "You're not the one who has to wake up after surgery with years of your life just—gone. Erased. You're not the one who has to pretend to be okay while everyone around you knows someone you can't remember."

Hyunwoo was quiet for a moment. Then, "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Sangah whispered. "I have two months to decide."

"Don't wait too long," Hyunwoo said. "Please."

They sat in silence for a while longer. Then Hoseok helped her to her feet, and they took the subway back together. They wanted to ride all the way to her stop, walk her home, but she told them she needed to be alone.

She needed to think.

Two months. Sixty days.

It felt like forever and no time at all.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

At home, Sangah went straight to her room and locked the door.

She sat at her desk, opened her laptop, and typed: "how to stop being in love with someone."

The results were useless. Articles about moving on after breakups. About getting over exes. About the stages of heartbreak and healthy coping mechanisms. Nothing about what to do when the person was still there, still in your life, still perfect and unavailable and killing you just by existing.

Nothing about how to stop your heart from wanting what it wanted.

She closed the laptop and lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

Through the wall, she heard the front door open. Dior's voice, bright and welcoming: "Hyungwon! Come in, come in."

A male voice responded—warm, friendly. "I brought food. Figured you might not have eaten yet."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to. You seemed stressed earlier."

Sangah closed her eyes. So this was Hyungwon. The classmate, the project partner, the person Dior had been spending more time with. The person who made her smile when Sangah couldn't anymore.

Their voices continued, muffled through the wall. Talking about their project, about classes. Hyungwon said something that made Dior laugh—a real laugh, the kind Sangah hadn't heard in weeks.

Then, footsteps approaching. A soft knock on her door.

"Sangah?" Dior's voice, gentle. "Have you eaten?"

"Yes," Sangah lied. She hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"How was the doctor's appointment?"

Sangah stared at her closed door. At the barrier between them.

"It was fine," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "They're running more tests. I'm just tired from the commute. About to sleep."

A pause.

"Oh. Okay. I understand." Dior's voice was quiet. "I'll put some food in the fridge in the meantime. You can heat it up when you get hungry."

"Thanks."

Another pause. Longer this time.

Sangah thought Dior had left. She closed her eyes, feeling the exhaustion pull at her.

Then, so quiet she almost didn't hear it: "You'd tell me if something was really wrong... right?"

Dior wasn't asking her. She was asking herself, asking the universe, asking the closed door between them.

But Sangah heard it anyway.

Her throat tightened. She pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from making a sound.

No, she thought. I wouldn't tell you. Because telling you means losing you one way or another. Either you reject me and I die quickly, or you feel obligated to love me back and I ruin your life, or I get the surgery and you become a stranger.

I'm going to lose you no matter what I choose.

The footsteps retreated. Dior's voice in the living room, quieter now. Hyungwon saying goodbye. The front door closing.

Then silence.

Sangah lay in the dark, thinking about the surgery. About waking up in a hospital bed with gaps in her memory. About seeing Dior for the first time post-surgery and feeling nothing. No recognition. No warmth. Just a stranger with a kind face.

About Dior having to watch that happen. Having to see Sangah look at her with blank, uncomprehending eyes.

About living the rest of her life with years just—gone. Erased. A hole where Dior should be.

She pulled out her phone, looked at the photos. There were so many of them together. Freshman year, awkward and new. Sophomore year, comfortable. Junior year, inseparable. Senior year—fewer photos this year, because Sangah had been too busy dying to take them.

In every single photo, they looked happy. They looked like they belonged together.

After the surgery, Sangah wouldn't remember any of this. Wouldn't remember why these photos existed. Wouldn't understand why this stranger appeared in so many of her pictures.

She opened her messages with Dior. Scrolled back through months and months of conversations. Inside jokes she wouldn't understand anymore. References to moments she wouldn't remember. A whole relationship, a whole friendship, reduced to confusing text messages from someone she'd never met.

Her chest ached—not from the disease this time, but from grief.

She was going to lose Dior.

One way or another, she was going to lose her.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

Sangah set her phone down and cried into her pillow, muffling the sound so Dior wouldn't hear through the wall.

Outside her window, the summer night was warm and still.

In two months, she had to make a choice.

But it didn't feel like a choice at all.

It felt like three different ways to die.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

September arrived with cooler weather and the first hints of changing leaves.

Sangah's condition worsened in tandem with the season's shift.

The buds were constant now, appearing multiple times a day. Full blooms started in early September—complete cherry blossoms, stem and all, coughed up whole. They were heavier, harder to expel, and always accompanied by blood.

She'd lost more weight. The dark circles under her eyes were permanent fixtures. Her clothes hung loose. She had no appetite.

"Okay, that's it."

Sangah looked up from her textbook. Jooheon had his arms crossed—unusual for him, someone who rarely looked anything other than relaxed. Beside him, Yeojoo had closed her laptop, which meant she was serious. Yeojoo never closed her laptop mid-session.

"What?" Sangah asked.

"We're staging an intervention," Yeojoo said. "You look like death."

"Yeojoo—" Dior started.

"No, I'm serious. Look at her." Yeojoo gestured at Sangah. "She can barely make it up the stairs without stopping to breathe. She's lost, what, ten kilos? And she keeps coughing like her lungs are trying to escape."

Sangah tried to deflect. "I'm just—"

"Don't say you're fine," Jooheon interrupted. "We're not idiots. Something is seriously wrong."

"I'm seeing a specialist," Sangah said, voice hoarse. "They're handling it."

"What specialist?" Yeojoo pressed. "For what?"

Sangah didn't answer.

Jooheon leaned forward, his usual easy-going demeanor replaced with concern. "Look, I know we're not as close as you and Dior, but we've been studying together for three years. We care about you. And watching you like this—" He stopped. "It's scary, Sangah."

"I'm handling it," Sangah repeated.

"How?" Yeojoo asked. "Because from where we're sitting, you're not handling anything. You're dying."

The word hung in the air.

Dior, who had been silent this whole time, made a small sound.

"I have an appointment in two weeks," Sangah said finally. "With the specialist. Follow-up. Then we'll know more."

"About what?" Yeojoo wouldn't let it go.

"About treatment options."

"So there is something seriously wrong," Jooheon said.

Sangah looked down at her textbook, at the words that wouldn't focus.

"Yeah," she admitted. "There is."

"And you won't tell us what it is?" Yeojoo's voice was gentler now.

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?" Jooheon asked.

Sangah didn't answer.

Yeojoo exchanged a glance with Jooheon, some silent communication passing between them.

"Okay," Yeojoo said finally. "Okay. We won't push. But—" She reached across the table, put her hand over Sangah's. "We're here. Whatever it is, whenever you're ready to talk about it, we're here."

Jooheon nodded. "And if you need anything—rides to appointments, notes from classes you miss, someone to bring you food—you tell us. Got it?"

Sangah felt tears building. She fought them down. "Got it."

Dior still hadn't said anything, just sat there with that worried, helpless expression on her face.

They tried to study for another hour, but Sangah couldn't focus. She excused herself to the bathroom twice to cough into tissues, hiding the blood and petals.

When she came back the second time, Jooheon was already packing up her bag along with his own.

"I'm driving you home," he announced. "Both of you."

"You don't have to—" Sangah started.

"I'm driving you home," he repeated firmly. "Come on."

In the car, Yeojoo in the passenger seat kept up a steady stream of chatter about their classes, about campus gossip, filling the silence. Jooheon drove carefully, kept glancing at Sangah in the rearview mirror.

They dropped Yeojoo off first, then headed to Sangah and Dior's apartment.

"Hey," Jooheon said as they pulled up. He turned to look at them. "I mean it, okay? Whatever you need. I'm a phone call away."

"Thank you," Sangah managed.

Dior squeezed his arm. "You're a good friend."

"Yeah, well. You guys are stuck with me."

They got out, and Jooheon waited until they were inside before driving away.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Later that night, there was a knock on Sangah's door.

"Come in," she called, expecting Dior.

But it was Dior, Jooheon, and Yeojoo.

"Surprise," Yeojoo said, holding up bags of takeout. "We decided movie night is happening."

"I told them you were tired—" Dior started apologetically.

"Which is exactly why we're here," Jooheon interrupted, already heading to the living room. "You need to eat, and you need friends around, and we're not taking no for an answer."

Sangah wanted to protest, wanted to hide in her room and be alone with her misery. But they were already setting up, spreading out food on the coffee table, queuing up a movie.

"Come on," Yeojoo said gently, taking Sangah's hand. "Just for a little while."

So Sangah let herself be pulled to the couch. Let herself be surrounded by her friends. Jooheon made her eat at least some of the food. Yeojoo kept up commentary on the movie. Dior sat close, not quite touching but there.

And for a little while, Sangah could almost forget she was dying.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

After the movie ended and Jooheon and Yeojoo left, Dior walked Sangah back to her room.

"They're good friends," Sangah said quietly.

"They love you," Dior corrected. "We all do."

She said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like it was obvious.

Like it was enough.

Sangah's chest ached.

"Dior—" she started.

"I know you can't tell me," Dior said. "Whatever's happening, I know you can't talk about it. But—" She took Sangah's hand, held it between both of hers. "I'm not going anywhere. Okay? No matter what happens, I'm not going anywhere."

Sangah wanted to tell her that she was the one going somewhere. That in a few months, she'd either be dead or she wouldn't remember this moment, wouldn't remember the way Dior's hands felt, wouldn't remember this promise.

Instead, she just nodded.

"Okay," she whispered.

Dior hugged her goodnight—tight, desperate, like she knew something was ending even if she didn't know what.

When Sangah closed her door, she stood there for a long moment, listening to Dior move around on the other side.

Then she pulled out her laptop and looked up the surgery consent forms Dr. Kazuya had given her.

She opened the document. Read through the terms, the side effects, the acknowledgment that she understood she would lose all memory of the attachment figure.

Her cursor hovered over the signature line.

She thought about Jooheon driving them home, about Yeojoo holding her hand, about the three of them showing up unannounced just to make sure she ate.

She thought about Dior's promise: I'm not going anywhere.

But Sangah was.

One way or another, she was going somewhere Dior couldn't follow.

She didn't sign the forms that night.

But she scheduled the surgery for mid-December.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The follow-up appointment with Dr. Kazuya was on a Tuesday afternoon in late September.

Sangah went alone again. She'd gotten better at lying to Dior about where she was going—"library," "campus," "meeting with thesis advisor." The lies came easier now, even as they tasted like ash.

Dr. Kazuya's office looked the same. Neat, organized, clinical. But his expression when he saw her was grave.

"Sit down, Sangah."

She sat, the folder from the last appointment still in her bag. She'd brought new samples—full blooms this time, three of them in a fresh ziplock bag.

Dr. Kazuya took them, examined them carefully. "When did these start?"

"Early September. They're constant now. Multiple times a day."

"And the blood?"

"Always."

He set the bag down, made notes. "I'm ordering another chest X-ray. I need to see how much the roots have progressed."

The X-ray process was familiar this time. Stand here, hold still, hold your breath. The machine whirred.

Back in his office, waiting for the results, Sangah stared at the medical texts on the shelves and tried not to think about what they'd show.

Dr. Kazuya returned with his tablet, his expression even more serious than before.

"Come look at this," he said.

Sangah stood, moved to his side. He pulled up her new X-rays next to the ones from July.

The difference was stark.

The white tendrils had spread—thicker, more numerous, wrapping tighter around her bronchial tubes. And near her heart, the roots had advanced significantly, creeping closer to the cardiac tissue.

"This is substantial progression," Dr. Kazuya said quietly. "In just two months, the roots have—" He zoomed in on the area around her heart. "See here? They're beginning to integrate with your cardiac muscle."

Sangah felt cold.

"What does that mean?"

"It means we're running out of time." He turned to face her. "Have you made a decision about treatment?"

"I'm scheduling the surgery," Sangah said. "I brought the consent forms."

She pulled them out of her bag. Dr. Kazuya took them, flipped through—and stopped.

"You wrote December 15th," he said, looking up at her.

"Yes."

"That's three months away."

"I know."

Dr. Kazuya set the forms down, removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he looked at her again, his expression was deeply concerned.

"Sangah, I don't think you understand. At the rate your disease is progressing, December is too late."

"You said I had four to six months—"

"I said that in July, when the roots were less established. This—" He gestured at the X-rays. "This is accelerated progression. You're coughing up full blooms. That indicates the roots are mature, well-integrated. If this continues, by December the roots will be too entangled with your heart to safely remove."

Sangah's hands tightened in her lap. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we need to perform the surgery sooner. Much sooner." He pulled out his calendar. "I can schedule you for late October. Four weeks from now. That gives us enough margin of safety."

"No."

"Sangah—"

"December 15th," she said firmly. "That's when I want the surgery."

Dr. Kazuya leaned back in his chair, studying her. "Can I ask why you're insisting on that date?"

Sangah looked down at her hands. "I need time."

"Time for what?"

"To say goodbye."

The words hung between them.

Dr. Kazuya's expression softened. "To your roommate. Your best friend."

Sangah nodded, unable to speak.

"I understand that this is difficult," Dr. Kazuya said gently. "But delaying the surgery puts your life at serious risk. By December, we'll be threading the line of a significantly higher mortality rate. The surgery itself becomes more dangerous—there's a greater chance of complications, of the roots being too integrated to fully remove."

"I understand."

"Do you?" His voice was kind but firm. "Because I need you to truly understand what you're risking. The difference between a surgery in October versus December could be the difference between a 94% success rate and 60%. Maybe lower."

60%.

Sangah felt dizzy.

"If something goes wrong," Dr. Kazuya continued, "if the roots have integrated too deeply, you could die on the operating table. Or the surgery could be incomplete—we remove what we can, but some roots remain. In that case, the disease continues, and there's nothing more we can do."

"I understand," Sangah said again.

"Then why?" Dr. Kazuya asked. "Why are you willing to risk your life for three more months?"

Sangah looked up at him. "Because in three months, I won't remember her at all. These next three months are all I have left. All we have left, even if she doesn't know it."

"She doesn't know about the disease?"

"No."

"Are you planning to tell her?"

"No."

Dr. Kazuya was quiet for a long moment. "You realize that's a form of saying goodbye too. Living these months with her, knowing they're your last together."

"I know."

"And you think three months is worth the increased risk to your life?"

Sangah thought about Dior's promise. I'm not going anywhere. Thought about all the moments she wouldn't remember—three years of friendship, of growing close, of loving someone who'd become her whole world.

"Yes," she said quietly. "It's worth it."

Dr. Kazuya studied her for another moment, then sighed.

"I can't force you to make a different choice," he said. "But I need you to understand the reality. December 15th is the absolute latest I can perform this surgery. Not a day later. And even then, it's risky."

"I understand."

"If your symptoms worsen significantly—if you start experiencing severe chest pain, difficulty breathing, irregular heartbeat—you come to the emergency room immediately. We may not have the luxury of waiting until December."

"Okay."

He pulled out a different form. "I'm going to need you to sign an acknowledgment that you understand the increased risks of delaying the surgery. That you've been advised to schedule it sooner and have chosen not to."

Sangah took the form, read through it. Medical language, liability protection, but the meaning was clear: I know I'm risking my life. I'm doing it anyway.

She signed it.

Dr. Kazuya took the form, the consent papers, filed them away. "December 15th. 7AM. Nexus Medical Center."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." His expression was serious. "I need you to be very careful these next three months. No strenuous activity. Rest when you need to. If you feel chest pain, you stop whatever you're doing. And you need to monitor yourself—any worsening of symptoms, any new symptoms, you call me immediately."

"I will."

He walked her to the door, paused with his hand on the handle.

"Sangah," he said quietly. "I hope these three months are worth it."

"They will be," she said.

Even if she wouldn't remember them.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Outside the hospital, Sangah sat on the same bench as last time. Pulled out her phone and looked at the date she'd just committed to.

December 15th.

Twelve weeks away.

Twelve weeks to memorize Dior's laugh, her smile, the way she said Sangah's name. Twelve weeks to live a lifetime's worth of moments that she'd forget completely.

Twelve weeks, and then a stranger.

Her phone buzzed.

Dior

want me to make dinner tonight? thinking kimchi jjigae

Sangah stared at the message. Such a simple thing. Such a normal thing. The kind of text she'd gotten hundreds of times over the years.

After the surgery, she wouldn't know what kimchi jjigae tasted like at Dior's hands. Wouldn't remember that Dior always made it when Sangah seemed stressed. Wouldn't understand why this stranger kept texting her about dinner.

She typed back.

sounds perfect. i'll be home soon

Then she added, because she could, because Dior would never know what it meant

thank you for taking care of me

The response came immediately.

Dior

always ❤️

A heart emoji.

Sangah stared at it until her vision blurred.

Then she put her phone away and headed home, counting down the weeks until she lost everything.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

October arrived with crisp air and falling leaves.

Hyungwon arrived with it.

Not literally—he'd been around before. But suddenly he was there. In their apartment. In their life. In the space Sangah had been trying to preserve for her goodbyes.

It started innocently enough.

"Hyungwon's coming over to work on our presentation," Dior mentioned one evening. "Is that okay?"

"It's your apartment too," Sangah said.

So Hyungwon came over. He was exactly as Dior had described—genuinely nice, unhurried. Tall, with an easy smile and a calm demeanor that seemed to balance out Dior's energy naturally, the way certain people just do.

He brought coffee for both of them, asked Sangah how her thesis was going, didn't overstay his welcome.

Sangah hated him.

Not because of anything he did. But because when he was there, Dior's attention was divided. Instead of the quiet evenings Sangah had been hoarding like treasure, there was someone else. Someone who made Dior laugh, who understood her work stress, who belonged in her life in a way that would continue after Sangah forgot she existed.

"We're ordering chicken," Dior called from the living room one night. "Want some, Sangah?"

Sangah emerged from her room to find them on the couch, Hyungwon's laptop open between them, surrounded by books and papers.

"Sure," she said.

"Great! Hyungwon, this is my roommate, Sangah. Sangah, Hyungwon."

"We've met," Hyungwon said with a friendly smile. "A few times now."

Had they? Sangah couldn't remember. Everything was blurring together lately.

She joined them for dinner, sitting in the armchair while they took the couch. Watched Dior explain something about pedagogical theory, hands gesturing animatedly. Watched Hyungwon listen with that patient attention, occasionally asking questions that made Dior's face light up.

"You really get it," Dior said, beaming at him.

Something in Sangah's chest twisted violently.

She excused herself, coughing into her hand. When she checked in the bathroom, there were two full blooms and enough blood to stain the sink pink.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Hyungwon started coming over twice a week. Then three times. Then it seemed like he was always there.

"He doesn't have a good study space in his dorm," Dior explained. "His roommate is really loud. I hope you don't mind."

"It's fine," Sangah lied.

But it wasn't fine. Because every evening Hyungwon was there was an evening Sangah couldn't have with Dior. Couldn't memorize the way she hummed while making tea, couldn't steal these last moments, couldn't say goodbye to someone who didn't know she was leaving.

And worse—watching them together made it hurt more.

The cough got worse. The blooms came more frequently. Sangah started coughing up three, four, five flowers a day.

She was running out of time faster than she'd planned.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"You look like shit."

Sangah looked up from her barely-touched lunch. Yeojoo had slid into the seat across from her in the campus cafeteria, Jooheon right behind her.

"Hello to you too," Sangah said, voice hoarse.

"I'm serious." Yeojoo leaned forward. "You look worse than last week. Which I didn't think was possible."

Jooheon set his tray down, studying her with concerned eyes. "Are you eating? Like, at all?"

"Yes."

"Liar." Yeojoo pointed at Sangah's tray. "You've been pushing that rice around for ten minutes."

Sangah set her chopsticks down. "I'm just not hungry."

"You're never hungry anymore," Jooheon said quietly. "Sangah, whatever's going on—"

"I'm handling it."

"Are you?" Yeojoo asked. "Because— Sangah—” She sighs. “It doesn’t look like you are. You're just... fading."

The word hit harder than Sangah expected.

"The treatment—" she started.

"When?" Jooheon interrupted. "You said you had a follow-up appointment. What did the doctor say?"

Sangah was quiet for a moment. "Surgery. In December."

"Surgery?" Yeojoo's voice rose. "Sangah. How.. how bad is it?"

Sangah didn't know how to answer. How to tell them that she'd found herself between a rock and a hard place. How she'd fallen in love with her best friend and it was killing her quite literally.

"You don't need to tell us the specifics if you don't want to," Jooheon said in the most gentle voice. "We just want to be able to help you in every way we can."

"I— It's—" Yeojoo and Jooheon patiently waited for her.

"I've contracted a rare disease that progressively invades my lungs until it reaches my heart, which will then be fatal."

Silence. The color drained from both their faces when Sangah said the last word.

"I'm having surgery in December to have it removed. Success rate is up to 94%"

"Why are you waiting that long?" Yeojoo said after a while.

Because I need to say goodbye, Sangah thought. Because after December I won't remember Dior. Because I'm trying to memorize everything before it's erased.

"Doctor's schedule," she lied.

Yeojoo and Jooheon exchanged a look that said they didn't believe her.

"Look," Yeojoo said, gentler now. "We're not trying to push. But we care about you. And watching you like this is—" She stopped. "It's scary, Sangah."

"I know," Sangah whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Jooheon said. "Just... let us help. Whatever you need."

"I just need time."

"Time for what?" Yeojoo asked.

Sangah looked at them—her friends, who showed up with food and interventions and concern. Who will remember, who would know the person she used to be.

"To get ready," she said finally.

It wasn't really an answer, but they let it be one.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

That weekend, Jooheon organized a group dinner.

"Everyone's coming," he announced in their group chat. "No excuses. We haven't all hung out together in weeks."

So they all gathered at a restaurant near campus—Sangah, Dior, Jooheon, Yeojoo, Hyunwoo, and Hoseok. Hyungwon was invited too, since he'd become a fixture in their lives.

Sangah sat between Hyunwoo and Hoseok, while Dior sat across from her next to Hyungwon.

"To surviving midterms," Jooheon declared, raising his glass.

"To surviving senior year," Yeojoo added.

They clinked glasses, ordered too much food, fell into easy conversation.

Sangah tried to be present, tried to memorize this. The way Jooheon told stories with his whole body. The way Yeojoo rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. The way Hyunwoo and Hoseok kept glancing at her, worried but trying to hide it.

The way Dior laughed at something Hyungwon said.

"You okay?" Hoseok murmured next to her.

Sangah nodded, not trusting her voice.

Under the table, Hyunwoo's hand found hers, squeezed it gently.

They knew. They understood what she was doing—trying to hold onto these moments before they were taken away.

"Sangah," Dior called across the table. "Remember when we first came here? Freshman year?"

Sangah looked up. "Yeah. You ordered the spiciest thing on the menu and cried."

"I didn't cry," Dior protested, laughing. "My eyes just watered. A lot."

"You cried," Yeojoo confirmed. "I have pictures."

"Traitor!"

Everyone laughed. Sangah tried to smile, tried to join in, but her chest hurt.

She wouldn't remember this. Wouldn't remember freshman year, or the restaurant, or the way Dior's nose got red when she ate spicy food.

"Excuse me," she mumbled, standing up. "Bathroom."

She made it to the bathroom and locked herself in a stall before the coughing fit hit.

Violent, agonizing. She coughed into her hands, tried to muffle the sound.

When it finally stopped, her palms were full of flowers and blood. Six full blooms this time.

She cleaned up as best she could, wiped her hands, tried to make herself presentable.

When she came out, Yeojoo was waiting by the sinks, arms crossed over her chest. For someone who'd spent most of dinner being sharp and funny, she looked very small now.

"You're getting worse," Yeojoo said quietly.

"I'm fine—"

"Stop." Yeojoo's voice was firm. "Just stop, okay? We're not stupid. Something is seriously wrong and you won't tell us what it is and we have to just watch you—"

Her voice broke.

Sangah stared at her. Yeojoo, who was always sharp-tongued and practical, had tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Sangah whispered.

"I don't want you to be sorry," Yeojoo said. "I want you to be okay. I want—" She wiped at her eyes angrily. "God, I want you to let us help."

"You can't help with this."

"Why not?"

Because the only person who can help is Dior, and telling her would ruin everything.

"It's complicated," Sangah said.

Yeojoo looked at her for a long moment. Then she pulled Sangah into a hug—sudden, tight, desperate.

"Whatever it is," Yeojoo said into her shoulder, "you don't have to do it alone."

But Sangah did. That was the whole point.

She was doing this alone so everyone else could be okay.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Later that week, Hyunwoo and Hoseok cornered her in the engineering lab.

"We need to talk," Hyunwoo said.

Sangah looked up from her workstation. The lab was empty except for the three of them.

"About what?"

"About the fact that you're dying and Dior doesn't know," Hoseok said. No softening, no preamble. That was Hoseok—he said the hard thing because someone had to.

Sangah's hands stilled on her keyboard. "Keep your voice down."

"Why?" Hoseok asked. "Afraid someone will hear? Afraid they'll find out your secret?"

"Hoseok—" Hyunwoo started.

"No." Hoseok turned to Sangah. "You're scheduled for surgery in December. That's two months away. And you're getting worse—we can all see it. But Dior thinks you're just sick. She thinks you're seeing doctors, getting treatment for some respiratory thing."

"She doesn't need to know—"

"She's your best friend!" Hoseok's voice rose. "She deserves to know that you're—that after December, you won't even remember her!"

The words echoed in the empty lab.

Sangah looked down at her hands. "That's exactly why I can't tell her."

"What?"

"If I tell her about the hanahaki, she'll figure out why I have it. She'll know I'm in love with her." Sangah's voice was barely a whisper. "And then what? She either rejects me and the disease kills me faster, or she feels obligated to pretend to love me back, or she pities me. Either way, I lose her."

"You're losing her anyway," Hyunwoo said gently.

"At least this way, she doesn't have to carry it," Sangah said. "After the surgery, I'll forget. She'll move on. It'll be like I never loved her at all."

"But she'll remember," Hoseok said. "She'll remember that you were her best friend and then suddenly you weren't. She'll remember living with you, all your routines, all your inside jokes—and you won't know what any of it means."

"I know."

"Do you?" Hyunwoo asked. "Because I don't think you've really thought about what that's going to be like. For her. She's going to lose you too, Sangah. Just in a different way."

Sangah felt tears building. "I'm trying to protect her."

"By lying to her?"

"By not making her responsible for keeping me alive!"

The words burst out, louder than she meant them.

"That's what it would be," Sangah continued, voice shaking. "If I tell her—if she somehow, miraculously feels the same way—she'd always wonder if it was real or if she just convinced herself because she didn't want me to die. And if she doesn't feel the same way, she has to live with knowing she killed me. How is that fair to her?"

Hyunwoo and Hoseok were quiet.

"The surgery is the only option," Sangah said. "It's the only way everyone gets to be okay."

"Except you," Hoseok said quietly. "You don't get to be okay."

"I'll be alive. That's enough."

"Is it?"

Sangah didn't have an answer for that.

That night, Sangah came home to find Hyungwon in the kitchen with Dior, cooking together.

"Hey!" Dior called when she heard the door. "We made extra if you're hungry."

"I'm good," Sangah said, even though she hadn't eaten all day.

She started toward her room, but Dior caught her hand.

"You barely ate at the group dinner," Dior said. "Please. Just a little?"

And because it was Dior asking, because Sangah was trying to memorize the way her hand felt, she agreed.

The three of them ate at the small kitchen table. Hyungwon told a story about his roommate. Dior laughed. Sangah pushed food around her plate.

"Sangah's really quiet tonight," Hyungwon observed.

"She's always quiet," Dior said, but her eyes were worried.

"I'm just tired," Sangah said. "Thesis stuff."

After dinner, Hyungwon left. Dior started cleaning up, and Sangah moved to help.

"I've got it," Dior said. "You should rest."

"I can help—"

"Sangah." Dior turned to face her. "Please. Just rest. You look exhausted."

They were standing close in the small kitchen. Close enough that Sangah could see the concern in Dior's eyes, the small crease between her brows.

"I'm okay," Sangah said.

"No, you're not." Dior's voice was soft. "You haven't been okay in months. And I don't know how to help you because you won't let me in."

"Dior—"

"Is it me?" Dior asked suddenly. "Did I do something wrong? Is that why you've been pulling away?"

"What? No—"

"Then what is it?" Dior's eyes were bright with tears. "Because I'm trying so hard to be here for you, to give you space, to not push, but I'm scared, Sangah. I'm so scared and I don't know what to do."

Sangah felt her own tears falling.

"It's not you," she managed. "It's never been you. You're perfect. You're—"

She stopped before she said too much.

"Then why won't you talk to me?" Dior whispered.

Because if I do, everything falls apart.

"I'm sorry," Sangah said. "I'm so sorry."

Dior pulled her into a hug.

"It's going to be okay," Dior murmured. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Together."

But they wouldn't.

In two months, Sangah would forget this. Would forget Dior's arms around her, her promises, her presence.

And Dior would be left with the ghost of a friendship she'd never understand losing.

That night, alone in her room, Sangah coughed up eight full blooms.

She was running out of time faster than she could say goodbye.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The weather turned colder. October became November.

The cherry trees in the park were completely bare now, skeletal branches against grey skies. In the spring, they'd bloom again. Sangah wouldn't be there to see it.

Well—she'd be there. She just wouldn't remember why the cherry blossoms had ever mattered.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

One night in mid-November, Sangah sat at her desk with a blank document open on her laptop.

She'd been staring at it for twenty minutes.

She didn't know why she was doing this. It wouldn't change anything. Dior would never read it—Sangah had no intention of sending it, and after the surgery, she wouldn't remember writing it. It would just be words on a screen that meant nothing to the person who typed them.

But she needed to put it somewhere. Outside of her own head. Just once.

She started typing.

Dior,

I don't know how to start this. I've been trying to find the right words for months and I think the problem is there aren't any. There aren't words big enough for what I want to say.

I'm in love with you. I have been since February, maybe longer—maybe I just wasn't brave enough to look at it directly until then. And loving you has been the most beautiful and the most terrible thing that has ever happened to me, sometimes in the same breath.

She stopped. Her vision was blurring.

She pressed the back of her hand against her eyes, hard, trying to hold it back. It didn't work. The tears came anyway, slow and quiet, the kind that didn't ask permission.

She kept typing through them.

I need you to know that none of this is your fault. Whatever happens after Monday, whatever you hear, whatever gaps appear in my memory—none of it is your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. You were just you, and that was enough. More than enough.

You were the best part of every year I've known you. The bench in the park and the third floor of the library and the convenience store at two in the morning and the couch we've practically worn through. I want to keep all of it. I want to keep you.

But I can't.

And after Monday I won't even know what I've lost.

I think that's the part that scares me most. Not the forgetting itself—but the not knowing. I'll wake up and there will be this shape in my life where you used to be, and I won't even know to grieve it.

You deserve someone who remembers you. I'm so sorry I won't.

She couldn't see the screen anymore.

She pushed back from the desk, pressing her palms flat on her thighs, trying to breathe through it. The sob that came out was quiet, the kind she'd gotten good at—muffled, contained, designed not to travel through walls.

When she finally looked up, she caught her own reflection in the vanity mirror.

She stared at it.

The girl in the mirror stared back.

Sangah had been avoiding mirrors for months. Not consciously—just finding reasons to look away, to not quite focus. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend the deterioration was slower than it was, that she still looked like herself, that she was managing.

She wasn't managing.

The reflection was stark in the low light of her desk lamp. The hollows beneath her cheekbones that hadn't been there in spring. The skin under her eyes, bruised and paper-thin. Her collarbones visible above the collar of her shirt in a way they'd never been before. Her lips, still faintly stained pink at the edges even after brushing her teeth.

She looked like someone in the process of being unmade.

Her gaze drifted to the wall beside the vanity.

She'd pinned polaroids there freshman year and never taken them down, adding to them over time until the wall had become a kind of accidental archive. Concerts she didn't remember attending. A trip to the coast sophomore year. Jooheon pulling a face at a restaurant. Yeojoo asleep on a library table. Hyunwoo and Hoseok at a barbecue, both laughing at something off-camera.

And Dior. Dior everywhere.

Dior on the bench in the park—that bench, their bench—last spring, head tipped back, laughing at something Sangah had said. Petals caught in her hair, the cherry trees in full bloom above her, the whole world pink and soft and alive.

Sangah had taken that photo without thinking. She barely remembered doing it.

She looked at it for a long time.

At the girl in the photo beside Dior—bright-eyed, healthy, holding the camera with steady hands. Wearing the same shirt she was wearing now, she realized distantly. Except on that girl it had fit differently. On that girl it hadn't hung loose at the shoulders the way it did now.

She barely recognized her.

That was seven months ago, she thought. Seven months.

She reached up and unpinned the polaroid with Dior. Held it carefully, like it might tear.

In the photo, Dior was mid-laugh. Sangah was leaning into her slightly, not quite looking at the camera—looking at Dior instead, the way she always did without realizing. The way she'd apparently always done without realizing.

You could see it, if you knew to look.

She set the photo down on the desk beside the unsent letter.

Then she looked back at her reflection—at the girl being slowly unmade by something that had started as a feeling she couldn't say out loud—and tried to find something recognizable.

She found Dior's hoodie. Stretched at the collar where Sangah had pulled it over her head too many times. She found the small scar on her chin from a childhood fall she couldn't remember the details of anymore. She found her hands, still her hands, ink-stained from the thesis she was somehow still writing.

She was still here.

For now.

She looked down at the letter on her screen. At the words she'd never send to the person she'd forget.

Then she closed the laptop without saving.

It didn't matter. She'd carry it until Monday, and then she wouldn't carry anything at all.

She pinned the polaroid back on the wall.

And went to bed.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Dior's concern had evolved into something sharper, more insistent.

"You're avoiding me," she said one evening, blocking Sangah's bedroom door.

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. You've been weird since summer. And you're getting worse." Dior's voice cracked. "You look like you're dying, Sangah. And you won't tell me what's wrong."

I am dying. I'm dying of loving you.

"I told you, the doctors are handling it—"

"Then what is it? What's wrong with you?"

Silence. Sangah could feel the cough building, fought to suppress it. She watched emotions flicker across Dior's face—fear, frustration, hurt.

“I just don’t understand why you can’t tell me. Let me be a part of this. Let me be someone you can lean on. I—”

Dior pulled her into a hug. Tight, desperate.

Sangah buried her face in Dior's shoulder and tried to memorize everything. The way she smelled like vanilla and laundry detergent. The warmth of her. The sound of her heartbeat. The way she held on like Sangah was something precious.

“I’m not ready,” Sangah managed to whisper. “Please just give me a few days.”

When they pulled apart, Sangah had to turn away quickly, cough into her sleeve.

Three petals, blood-soaked.

She hid them in her fist.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

December arrived with the first snow.

Sangah's follow-up appointment showed critical progression. The roots had nearly consumed her cardiac tissue. Dr. Kazuya was visibly concerned.

"We should move the surgery up," he said.

"No. December 15th."

"Sangah—"

"I need these two weeks."

She needed to prepare. To say goodbye, even if Dior wouldn't know that's what it was.

Dr. Kazuya reluctantly agreed, but warned her: "If you have a major episode—severe chest pain, inability to breathe—you come to the ER immediately. We may not have the luxury of waiting."

Sangah promised, knowing she wouldn't. She'd made it this far. She could make it two more weeks.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The week before surgery, Sangah lived in moments she knew would be her last.

Monday, they studied at the library. Their table on the third floor—except Sangah had to stop twice on the stairs to catch her breath, hand pressed to the wall, while Dior hovered anxiously beside her. Once they reached the table, Dior worked on her final teaching portfolio while Sangah pretended to read her thesis notes. Mostly she just watched Dior, memorizing. The way her hair fell forward when she leaned over her laptop, the small furrow between her brows, the way she absently twirled her pen.

Every few minutes, Sangah had to cough into a tissue. Blood-streaked petals, sometimes full buds. She hid them quickly, but not quickly enough. Dior's eyes would flick to her, worried, then away.

"You're staring," Dior said without looking up, though her voice was tight.

"Just tired," Sangah lied, her voice hoarse and thin.

Tuesday, they made dinner together. Sangah stood at the counter chopping vegetables, but her hands shook. The knife felt heavy. Everything felt heavy.

Dior hummed while cooking—trying to act normal, but the tune was off-key, distracted. Their kitchen was too small for two people, but Dior kept finding excuses to touch her. A hand on her shoulder when passing behind her. Steadying her elbow when Sangah swayed slightly.

"Let me finish that," Dior said gently, taking the knife from Sangah's hands.

Sangah didn't argue. She didn't have the energy.

She excused herself to cough over the sink, and when she came back, Dior pretended not to see the blood she'd washed away.

Wednesday, they tried to watch a drama. Sangah made it twenty minutes before a coughing fit forced her to the bathroom. When she came back, pale and shaking, Dior had turned off the TV.

"You should rest," Dior said quietly.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Dior's voice cracked. "Please. Just rest."

So they lay on the couch instead, Dior's arms wrapped around Sangah like she was afraid she'd disappear. Maybe she was.

Sangah tried to memorize the warmth of her, the sound of her heartbeat, the way she held on so tight it almost hurt.

Thursday, they walked through the park. Sangah made it halfway before she had to sit on their bench, breathing hard. Everything hurt. Her chest, her throat, her lungs burning with every breath.

The cherry trees were skeletal now, branches bare and black against the grey sky.

"Remember when these were blooming?" Dior asked, her voice falsely bright. "The festival?"

Sangah remembered. Of course she remembered.

"Yeah," she managed.

"We should come back in spring," Dior said, and her voice broke on the words. "When they bloom again."

Sangah looked at her—at the tears Dior was trying to hide, at the way her hands twisted in her lap.

She wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise they'd come back, have that picnic they always talked about.

But they both knew something was terribly wrong. And Sangah still couldn't tell her.

So Sangah just nodded, and the silence between them was heavy with everything unsaid.

Friday morning, Sangah woke up coughing. The fit lasted ten minutes, violent and wet. When it finally stopped, the sink was full of blood and full blooms—three of them, perfect and terrible.

She heard Dior moving around in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of morning routine that wouldn't be familiar much longer.

When Sangah emerged, Dior took one look at her face and her hands stilled on the coffee cup.

"Sangah—" Dior's voice was small, scared. "Please. Whatever's happening, please just tell me."

"Soon," Sangah whispered. "I promise. Just—give me until tonight."

Because she'd made a decision. Sunday night. December 14th. The night before the surgery.

She would tell Dior everything.

Sunday morning, Sangah could barely get out of bed.

Every breath was agony. Her chest felt like it was being crushed. She knew what that meant—the roots were around her heart now, squeezing.

She looked at her calendar through blurred vision. December 14th.

Today.

The surgery was Monday morning. 7AM.

She had to tell Dior tonight.

She had to make it until then.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

That evening, Sangah asked Dior to sit with her.

"I need to talk to you," Sangah said, and even those few words cost her. She had to stop, breathe, fight back the cough. "I'm ready now. To tell you everything."

Dior's face went pale. She sat down slowly on the couch, like she was bracing for impact.

"Okay," Dior whispered. "I'm listening."

They sat across from each other on the small couch. The distance between them felt enormous.

Sangah took a breath—painful, rattling.

"I'm sick," she said, and her voice was so quiet Dior had to lean in to hear. "Really sick. And I have to have surgery. Monday morning."

Dior's face drained of all color. "What? Monday? That's—that's tomorrow—"

"I know."

"What kind of surgery? For what?" Dior's voice was rising, panic creeping in. "Why didn't you tell me? I would have—we could have—"

"It's complicated," Sangah said. "It's rare. The doctors—they explained it but even I don't fully understand."

She was lying. She understood perfectly. But she couldn't tell Dior about the hanahaki, about the unexpressed feelings, about how loving her was the cause of everything. Couldn't let Dior carry that guilt.

"But the surgery will fix it?" Dior asked desperately.

"Yes. The surgery is safe. High success rate." Sangah had to pause, fight back a cough. "But there's a side effect."

Silence.

"The doctor said—" Her voice cracked. "My memories will be affected. That I'll lose some things."

"What things?"

Sangah looked up, met Dior's eyes.

"Memories of you."

Dior went completely still.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll forget you," Sangah said, and saying it out loud made it real in a way it hadn't been before. "Completely. Your name, your face, that we were friends. Everything we've been to each other. Gone."

The tears were coming now, hot and fast, and she couldn't stop them.

"I'm so sorry," she choked out. "I'm so fucking sorry but I can't—I can't keep—"

The words broke apart. She was sobbing now, ugly and raw, all the months of holding it together falling apart at once.

"I tried," she gasped between sobs. "I tried to find another way but this is—this is the only option and I just—"

A cough seized her then. She turned away, tried to muffle it, but it was violent and long.

When it passed, she kept her hands closed tight, hiding what she'd coughed up.

"I needed you to know before I forgot," she managed, voice wrecked. "That you were everything to me. That these three years were the best of my life. That even though I have to forget you, I don't want to. Not for a second."

She was breaking apart now, months of grief and fear and love spilling out.

"I'm so sorry I waited so long to tell you. I'm sorry I'm leaving you like this. I'm sorry—"

"Stop," Dior said, and her voice was shaking. "Stop apologizing."

She was crying too now, tears streaming down her face.

"Why you?" Dior asked, broken. "Why does it have to be you?"

Sangah had no answer for that.

They sat in the heavy silence, both crying, the distance between them on the couch feeling like an ocean.

Then—

Dior's face changed.

Something shifted. Grief melted into something else. Realization. Understanding. And then, suddenly, fierce determination.

She moved fast, sliding off the couch and kneeling on the floor in front of Sangah. Her hands came up to cup Sangah's face, shaking but sure.

"If you're going to forget me," Dior said, and her voice was breaking but strong underneath, "at least know this first."

Sangah's breath caught—painful, shallow.

"I love you," Dior said, and it came out like a confession, like a prayer, like something she'd been holding back for just as long. "I'm in love with you. I have been for so long I can't remember not loving you."

Sangah couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't believe—

"I love you," Dior said again, thumbs brushing away Sangah's tears. "In this lifetime."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, tender and devastating at once.

"And I'll be loving you in the next."

Time stopped.

"Even if the memories fade. I will still be loving you."

Sangah could feel everything at once—the roots around her heart, squeezing tighter. The flowers in her lungs, choking her. The blood and petals and death she'd been carrying for months.

But also Dior's hands on her face, warm and real. Dior's eyes, bright with tears and love and fear and hope.

Dior's lips, so close.

Dior leaned in slowly, giving Sangah time to process, to understand, to choose.

She stopped less than a centimeter away.

Close enough that Sangah could feel her breath. Could see every emotion written across her face. Could see the truth of it—that Dior loved her. Had always loved her.

Waiting. Asking. Offering.

Even now. Even dying.

Sangah closed the distance.

Actions

Kudos

s0ngbirrrd, owennshome, kazuha03, and xaninks2 as well as 3 guests left kudos on this work!

Comments

Sorry, this work doesn't allow non-Archive users to comment. You can however still leave Kudos!

Archive of Our Own

Actions

Work Header