The look on Minseok’s face is sad.

No.

He’s not sad. He pities you. And you hate it.

“When are you having the surgery?”

You take a deep breath, or at least as deep as your lungs allow you. You were kind of expecting that question. It’s the question your family and friends have been asking you for the past three months. But you weren’t expecting it to pop up this soon into the conversation. You avoid Minseok’s eyes before answering.

“Not yet.”

There’s a long pause before he speaks again, sighing.

“You can’t postpone it any longer and you know it. It’s becoming dangerous.”

You want him to leave you alone. You want to lash out on him for forcing you to do this. For reminding you every day, very insistently, what you need to do. But you also know he’s only worried about you, so you bite your tongue and nod.

“I’m going to do it, Minseok. Just… not yet.”

“You could die,” he says in a low voice, and you want to scream at him, let go of all of your frustrations because you don’t want him to be so nice to you.

You feel the knot in your throat getting tighter the longer you stay there and you know if you don’t get out of Minseok’s house, you will start to cry and you won’t be able to stop. You don’t want him to comfort you. The only person you want to comfort you, won’t. Because he is the very source of your misery.

The thought of him makes your chest feel weighted and you bring your hand to your mouth, trying to suppress the flowery coughs from leaving your lips. Geranium and camellia petals end up inside your fist, a few falling to the floor of Minseok’s kitchen. How fitting, leaving behind the evidence of your sadness at his place.

He doesn’t make any comments, though, so you take the chance this silence is giving you to put your jacket on and grab your things, ready to leave.

“Please, don’t go visit him. Don’t do that to yourself. Will you promise?”

No. You can’t promise that. You understand why he is asking you to listen to him, just once. You understand but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live with this disease that’s consuming not only your body but your mind and soul, too. Continuously reminding you of him in the form of flowers.

Forget-me-nots.

That’s the type of flower your lungs produce whenever you go visit him. Like he could care. Like it was some kind of sign your body was sending you.

You place a hand on Minseok’s shoulder and smile tiredly at him before going to grab the handle of the door to open it.

“I’ll see you later, Minnie.”

“Please, don’t g…”

But you can’t hear the rest of the sentence since you are already out of the door and in the streets, breathing in the warm air of the ends of the summer. People around you walk fast, always in some kind of hurry. Late for work, late for school, late for picking up the kids. And they will probably be late for life. Just like you.

You start walking towards where you know he is. You walk slowly, admiring the trees, how the sunlight filters through their branches and leaves, projecting weird shadows on the pavement. The wind blows softly, raising fallen leaves from the ground and a few strands of hair fall into your eyes. You cough again, not bothering to cover your mouth with your hand and the petals are carried away by the wind.

You arrive at your destination not really paying attention to your surroundings anymore and your chest tightens at the sight of the tall iron gates. You quicken your pace, trying to get over with this as quickly as possible. When you are finally in front of him, you drop to your knees.

“Hello, Yixing. How have you been?” You whisper softly as if to try not to disturb him in his rest.

The smiley face of Yixing looks at you from the framed picture on his tombstone. His peaceful dark eyes glint with an amused expression and his dimple is showing. You smile back, but the gesture never really reaches your eyes. Someone’s put flowers in his grave. Probably his mother. White lilies.

“I miss you. Things haven’t been the same without you around.” Your voice cracks at the end, and you choke back a sob, coughing a few more petals.

“Did you miss me? Would you ever miss me if you were still alive?“

Tears are running down your face now, you are too tired to even pretend to be okay. How could you be okay? You are sick. You were so incredibly in love with someone you got sick because he didn’t love you back. And now he is gone. A piece of your own life, gone with him. Now there’s only one way to cure you and you can’t even consider it.

Your chest feels heavy and you don’t know if it is because of the flowers growing inside your lungs or because of the impossible decision your heart has to make. Having the surgery or not.

You are not really scared of the surgery, per se. Your doctor has explained everything to you and it doesn’t sound extremely complicated or dangerous. Sure, there are always some risks during any medical procedure, but it’s not the physical aspects of it that has you terrified and trembling in your own skin. It’s the emotional part of it what really scares you. The part where a portion of your soul is going to be changed forever.

Loving Yixing has been a big side of your life for the past 4 years. Loving Yixing has made you do things you never thought you’d be brave enough to do. Loving Yixing has changed your way of seeing the world in means you never thought were possible. If you have the surgery… will that part of you be gone for good, like him? Will you lose your courage? Will you lose yourself?

Will you lose him?

There they are again. The mere thought of getting rid of your feelings for him makes those damn flowers to grow and climb up your trachea to finally come out of your mouth. The forget-me-nots. Sabotaging again your thin and fragile resolution of getting better.

Your head is spinning, your vision is blurry because of the tears that hang from your eyelashes and you can’t take a proper breath of air. You are pretty sure you’re hyperventilating. You swallow hard in an attempt to loosen the knot in your throat but another flower comes out.

Even in the middle of this state of mind, you find it funny that you only produce a full flower when you are in the cemetery. Like they were offerings to him. Your body telling you: don’t worry, you don’t have to spend money on flowers, I got this. A present is more meaningful when you do it yourself than when you buy it.

You laugh.

Is that your laugh? It doesn’t sound like you. It sounds maniacal and completely off. Now you’re convinced that you’ve totally lost it.

“I never asked you what your favourite flowers were, so I got you this,” you snort. You’re practically howling. The mouth that is moving is your mouth. The voice that you hear is your voice. But you can’t match those sounds to yourself and you laugh again.

“Do you like this flowers, Xing? I made them just for you.”