Irises
The skies were a beautiful purple splashed against the gardens of the school. And there were distinct conversations overheads, of what food to eat, of where should they sit, or who is the handsome guitarist of the second band. Sitting along the red chairs outside, he was sitting beside a girl who was fixing her skirts, cheeks tinted and hair newly cut.
"I sometimes regret it," he said as he put the letters of permission down, and he saw her look up in question "Taking up education, making it my entire world," his usually soft features were replaced by his forehead crinkling, the crows of his eyes more prominent than ever "I failed to take care of myself."
In habit, she tucked her hair in and looked at his eyes, and smiled softly "I made academics my world too," The smile was infectious and he angled his body towards her and they both know this feeling; the vulnerability of opening your world to another person.
"I always think it was too ambitious of me to know a lot of things," she continued "Like I can tell you the summary of World War 1 without any internet help,"
"Why did it happen?"
"Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot by Gavrilo Princip,"
"What country was Britain's Protectorate?"
"Belgium"
The smile on his face never left as she rambled on about these events, there was something different about this conversation, different from the ones with his other students, "You are into history?"
She nodded and swiped something from the cellphone she was holding "I got into the Tudors this summer,"
"Really? We're going to discuss that next week," He heard someone call out to him but he was focused too much at the girl beside him
The girl eyes lit up, and then a look of sadness crept up and just like her smile, it was infectious too, he frowned slightly as he waited her words "I think, King Henry VIII had a big brother complex,"
And soon as she said those words, he was suddenly reminded of his own brother. There were no more smiles and laughter. There were just two people numbly looking at the students going in or out of the gate, the strums of guitars across the speakers, looking at their phones that haven't lit up. A connection. A similarity once again.
Her eyes started tearing up, the medals and certificates and the numbers blurred together. The comparisons, the anguish. A pink ribbon amidst blue cradles. He saw how her fingers were shaking.
"My brother used to kiss the picture of his girlfriend every night before he sleeps," He started, and he remembers it all too, competitions, both of them slumped over the kitchen table, racing against one another, bigger salaries. Two burning blazes. He didn't notice his fingers were shaking too.
"It's weird but one night we talked," He shifted slightly, finding the right words "I told him I was tired," he remembered the memory fondly "He sat down, and told me he was tired too,"
Her eyes stopped tearing up. "My eldest brother just got married last month," She slowly found the courage to look at him again "I cried and cried when his wife, was walking down the aisle,"
And it makes the floodgates of their hearts spontaneously break and how suddenly the little talk becomes more than just little. He would talk of the miracles, music, and love; the beauty of the world and she would talk about lust, expectations, regrets; the unpleasantness of the world.
Two parallel lines becoming asymptotes.
When the purple skies turned into a dark blue dotted with stars, she stood up, bowed slightly and bid him goodbye, and proceeded to walk outside the school. The night lamps of the streets fill her vision and the cool air hits her in the face. She was walking, as calmly as she can. But then her chest aches, it was a weird sensation. She was fine before. She was talking with him and how he looked human, and not someone higher than her, vulnerable.
She was fine before. A few minutes ago she was fine. So why? When she took her first few steps away from him, she couldn't breathe. Her lungs were filling with something not air. Some student from her school approached her and asked if she was okay, the paleness of her skin never escaping her. The phantom burns in her chest seized, but as it ended, she coughed and coughed and coughed. It was the violent racking push from throat when she ate too much or ate too less. The nausea was visiting too and she felt dizzy. Still she dared to continue to go home. "This is just another episode," she thought. Another violent cough racked her body. Yep, just another episode.
Hanahaki Syndrome: People who hold unrequited love have flowers suddenly grow inside their heart and lungs. The victim starts coughing / throwing up petals and over time, full blossoms and thorns. It's noted to be painful and eventually suffocates and kills the victim, although the time it takes depends on the intensity of their feelings.
It may be cured if their love is requited, or the flowers are surgically removed. However, the surgery also takes their ability to have any feelings towards their crush.
A petal released from her mouth like a lost piece of confetti as she coughed, almost as if to say congratulations! She recognized the flower and she put in her palm; it was a pink petal of a carnation. Had it not been in the middle of high noon, and the fact that she was in the school's comfort room, she would have screamed.
All she could do was stare in shock at the petal in her hand. After all, how else was she supposed to react to that? What comes to her thoughts first isn't what to do about her infected lungs, but his gentle expression from this morning.
It wasn't supposed to be any different from the norm; sure she talks to him outside the classroom, having a short conversation or talking about the lesson. He walks through the garden pavilion with a cup of coffee or two on some days. The weather was perfect, the bugs stayed away, and it felt like they were the only people on Earth. No one was around to interrupt as they walked side by side without a care in the world, exchanging stories and laughing at his terrible daddy jokes.
Nothing particularly special happened as far as she could remember. So why was it that when he looked over and smiled so warmly at her, that she forgot to breathe and thought, "I want to be with him forever"?
As if she were being punished by some cruel goddess watching her struggle to come up with an answer, three more petals have fallen to the sink. As she tried to clear her throat, she splashed her face and groaned; she gave in, unable to deny it any longer.
She liked him.
No, "like" doesn't even begin describe the weight of her emotions. It's love. Pathetic; considering how hard she tried to protect her heart. Pathetic, considering there was another before that reverent man, a boy with tired eyes and unruly curls, that boy who made her spit out thorns, that poked through her jugular artery ruining her neck, and not soft velvet petals. A pitiful sound escapes her, a weak laughter as her whole body slumped and she held her head in her hands.
It's like she hasn't learned anything from the people who hurt her. Friends and family coming and going, taking and taking, never looking back to see what they did to her. How many holes and bruises they left for her to quietly patch up, all by herself. How many scars she had inflicted to herself. And now he's about to take what's left, her very life and remaining feelings.
Maybe she was bound to fall for him from the moment they met? The moment he stepped into the classroom, like fate or destiny or the alignment of stars.
As hot tears start to pool in her hands, and she began to shake, all she can think about now are his kind words, his gentle voice, the time they've spent together. As if on cue, more petals come along with stomach acid and she bolted into one of the stalls, clutching the toilet bowl. It'd be one thing if the vomiting was the result of her not eating right, but the sickly sweet taste of the petals make her feel even worse.
The burns subsided after a while and she wiped her wet clammy hands to her skirt, fixed her blouse and wiped her glasses clean, she needed to look fine when goes in the classroom and she lifted her chin a little higher as she heard the click of her heels.
There's a tickling in the back of her throat.
She coughs and coughs but it never goes away, and it's really starting to irritate her, She hasn't taken no more than ten steps away and suddenly there is no air in her lungs, she takes a deep breath that rattles in her throat, and she still can't breathe-
She stumbles out of the stairs and falls to her knees, still coughing and trying to get the petals out, and-
Little specks of blood stains her tinted lips, it's the familiar metallic taste and more petals drift to the ground, stained and delicate, and she grabs one, holds it up to her eyes with a trembling hand, and the tears she repressed dropped as soon as the petal fell.
She just thanks the heavens it's Tuesday today.
When she woke up, she remembered that medical masks were common this time of the year, with how often people got sick, so hopefully it wouldn't be odd if she started wearing one. What's odd is how she never noticed how many people wore one as she rode the train to school: the old, the young, and most of all, her fellow peers. Some wearing the uniform from her school, others from another, all looking rather downcast.
How many also have the disease known as "love" growing inside them?
Today is Wednesday, and as she slipped her bag on and got her beep card, she let out a small breath of air she doesn't know she's been holding.
She wasn't even a quarter of the way through her day or up the stairs as she felt that twisting feeling again, as if something was squeezing at her heart to. The small walk to her locker seemed like the longest road she ever took in her life, it makes her dizzy on top of her damned, and she doesn't even realize that she's so out of it until she bumped into someone. By the time she managed to look up and rummaging an apology at the back of her throat, his firm hands found their way to her shoulders and he helped steady her as she involuntarily held her breath.
"Are you alright?"
Although she just talked to him yesterday, her knees under her striped skirt are knocking against each other and her fingers are trembling as she pulled her school bag's straps even closer to her. Is it because she has become aware about how she felt towards him? Or because of how quick she is to notice the intensity of his stare, full of concern under his glasses as he waits for her answer? Perhaps it's due to how loud she can hear the blood rushing through her ears. Whatever the reason was, she felt another coughing fit coming and instinctively hold her hand over her mouth, the mask trapping and hiding the petals.
"Did you catch a cold?" He tried to get a look at her face but she instinctively avoid him, he said her name gently, his right never leaving her shoulder and his left moved up and down her other, "Are you going to be okay?"
She swallowed the repulsive taste that coated her mouth, she managed a stiff nod and reassured him the best she can, forcing her eyes to smile, but he still seems skeptical, worry evident in his face.
"You didn't get sick from staying too late the other night?" … It'd be a lie if she said no. It's just allergies, the girl adamantly insisted; a common, believable excuse, even if he is a PhD he would believe this pitiful whine. His furrowed brows relaxed somewhat as he leaned back and adjusted his glasses.
"If you say so…" The man shoved his hands into his pockets and they both walk towards the faculty. The young girl never paid attention to how close he was before, and even though he's not in her personal space, she can feel this useless thing drumming away in her chest.
What would it feel like to hold his hand longer? To have his arm around her shoulders, if they dared to take it further? To be closer by his side and bask in the warmth his body had to share? It's not the first time she wondered about it, she can't count the dreams, his eyes has been in, albeit this time not as platonically.
Her body shook without warning and she retched.
Sometimes he thinks her stubbornness will be the death of her, "You shouldn't be at school."
"My mother won't allow it," and at the mention of the woman, the man decided to not to push the subject, lest he has the child suffer a panic attack this early in the morning, where the clinic is yet to be opened and he has other classes to go to.
Upon her insistence, he sighed and patted her head. "Promise me you won't push yourself at least?"
Even with her mask on, he can still see her smile and he heard the all too familiar line of "I can't, but I'll manage,"
With a reluctant nod, he closes the faculty door and looked through the glass pane to see if she can even climb the stairs.
She hurried to the college comfort room, to get rid of the petals that filled the mask, she's unfortunately stuck taking big whiffs of the petals' aromatic fragrance, the damn things starting to itch against her tired mouth.
She got inside the classroom, removed her bag and tried to fall asleep in her chair.
Miss Monty tackles a lesson she is far interested in as she rested her chin against her hand and never one to take notes, she found herself absentmindedly doodling crude little flowers along the edges of her notebook, but despite the talk of history and the Omni present favor she has with the motherly professor, she can only focus on her burning chest.
Now, people may argue that suffocating is far worse, but while physical pain eventually stops and wounds heal, there's no telling how long it would take to recover from being told the inevitable "I don't love you".
It's scary to think about. She has been betrayed, lied to, and thrown away several times before; compared to getting scratches and cuts (and sometimes alcohol and agua oxinada seeping into them), it didn't come close to that feeling of something tearing through and ripping your soul apart. He broke through the walls she has built around herself, time and time again, ever the patient and understanding man he was, and he's one swing away from breaking her unformed glass heart into thousands of tiny pieces.
He is the one in front of the class now. His jazz hands and her classmates are laughing at one of his stories. Is it not ironic? He teaches religion and suddenly he became yours.
Yes, having her feelings crushed is worse. This whole throwing up petals she can handle.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she quietly cursed. It takes everything she has to keep herself from crying, as bile slowly floods her mouth, and she felt the class' eyes focus on her
They saw her decision to forego the mask, not caring anymore, and most of them gasp as petals come from her mouth.
She has to hold it together; she can't break down in the middle of class. In the middle of his class. Her eyes dart to him, with evident horror in his eyes. He doesn't say anything to her; He doesn't even look at her face. He just took a petal and held it in one palm, as he continued on with the lecture.
The eyes of pity bore on her back, Maria was even soothing her back. When she's alone she can let it all out. Just suffer a little while longer and the day will be over soon.
Please, please, please, just don't cry, she begged yourself.
No one in the class was smiling after that.
When his subject ends, the pressure in her head eases up as she made a beeline to the comfort room. She didn't even wait for him to get out of the classroom. After making sure no one was around, she cleaned and washed her mask and mouth out and throw the petals out. While the smell of the comfort room isn't any better, it's refreshing compared to the lingering, perfume-like scent that's stained to her. As she fixed her appearance and put her mask back on, the door opens. And she saw, Adiella enter and smothered her expensive handkerchief to her still bloodied mouth.
"We're eating," Adiella said as she straightened her jacket and sauntered to an open cubicle.
"You know I don't eat,"
" .eating."
Adiella watched as her friend sighed and washed her hands, and suddenly she was holding her hand to her chest.
"It's him? You're throwing up all these petals because of him?"
"No, I'm throwing these up because of Tom." She said in sarcasm.
"Beb," Adiella started as she led the still coughing girl outside, "you need to tell him,"
"Tell him "Sir, I really like you, you have to like me back or I'll die,"?"
The taller girl, slapped her hand to the smaller's shoulder, "Just tell him how you feel, no one really dies of Hanahaki,"
"And risk losing all our conversations and coffee? Risk losing his smiles?"
"Or risk losing your life," Adiella stopped fixed the girl's short hair "Beb, you still have to remember, he's still our teacher, you're still his student. Nothing is going to change that." She laughed slightly at the smaller girl's eye roll "Can we eat now?"
After school has ended, she saw him at the red chairs they have been accustomed to talk to. He makes her sit beside him.
There's no way he can miss how many times she keep putting her hands over her mouth as if she's about to hurl any second.
The older man tried to find the right words again "Are you alright? You, purged petals."
You're fine. You're fine. You have to be. Kathrina Angelica you have to be fucking fine.
His lips purse and she felt the guilt creeping up her spine as he stared down the top of her head.
"Hey, is there anything you need to get off your chest?" His question catches her off guard. His eyes probe hers for answers. Of course, he notices the way she clasped her hands together nervously in her lap and how her gaze drop to her phone, at the students, anywhere but him. In the corner of her vision she can see his quiet desperation.
Her heart throws itself against her rib cage.
She wants to tell him she loves him.
"You have people who care about you," he gently reminded her, speaking softly. "We can't help you if we don't know what's going on."
But he can't possibly feel the same way. He's only going to hurt you. He'll crush your affections with those gentle hands of his. Those firm, steady hands covering her own. "I'm your teacher, aren't I? It's alright to ask for help. You can talk to me if you need to."
And he'll kill her with them too.
At some point, all she could hear was white noise and see static. Earlier's images and thoughts play like they're on a film reel. How would her body look once those flowers freed themselves? Little blossoms reaching towards the sun as her flesh decays. How much is it going to hurt? How long will it be? Can it be worse than hearing Sir tell her how he really feels about her?
It can't be. Just guessing what words he'd use makes her chest twist tightly.
She flinched; that's the first time she's ever heard him raised his voice. It was unlike him and suddenly she started crying. She hates getting yelled at.
"I'm sorry Sir St-,"
A deep sigh bellowed from the man, and he raised his palm to his wrinkling forehead. "No, it was my fault, sorry for prying so much." He stood up from the seat and walked towards the entrance of the auditorium. He pauses in the doorway before looking over his shoulder. "Get well soon and rest up, alright?" He forces a smile that even she could tell is strained. "You are exempted for the seatwork, please don't worry."
"If you're free tomorrow, Sir," She began hesitantly "can we talk? Near the clinic so…" She struggled with the words "So when I…retch again,"
"Tomorrow. I promise."
This time, she wake up early and leave early. Go to the nearest 7-11 and order a stupid French Vanilla cup with two packs of sweetener and sugar. Not by choice of course, but she can't help that her body's built to rudely wake her up at the crack of dawn to keep her from choking to death in her sleep. Bolting to the school's comfort room, she's hunched over the toilet and successfully cleared a total of two petals from her throat, but nothing more.
Swallowing doesn't help either. Luckily that's where hands and stomach acid come in, as unpleasant as it is. It starts to hurt this time, though, and the tormenting shocks are enough to make anyone stop. Her fingers are getting sweaty and panic seizes her body but she has to do this.
And in horror, she pulled three, four, five flowers with full stems out. This time, the petals actually have blood on them. It's a few minutes after realizing that fact that she tastes it too.
Why has her Hanahaki already gotten this far after just two weeks? It's supposed to take at least months to get this bad! Would it regress if she stopped seeing him? No, that's not even possible; not only he'd only persist if she started avoiding him; they are required to meet twice a week. Wait, more importantly, Hanahaki can't turn back at all. So that means it'll only get worse even faster? In her haste to clean up her mess, her anxiety only multiply until her head pounds with frustration.
She can't go on like this.
There was only one solution.
Take all the flowers out.
Sacrifice this. All those memories.
Sacrifice him.
Even though she kept telling herself there's no way it's mutual, that it won't happen, that it could never happen, she still doesn't find the idea of having the love blossoming inside her forcibly removed. This is love.
You really don't want that taken from you.
And there he is near the clinic, coffee in hand, his phone in the other. The bespectacled man meets her eyes when she walked by and waves. She's thankful her mask hides her small smile as she waved back and continued into the building, head down.
The day is drawn out far too long for her liking. Had it always felt like that? Even as she spaced out, her eyes are drawn to the little flowers near the garden pavilion.
She wonders if there are Carnations in the small bushes.
Her grip tightens around her phone. Her feet refuse to move no matter how many times she screams at them in her head. The fear of impending rejection bites at her Achilles' heels, keeping her rooted. But it's not like time, the world, or the Hanahaki will wait for her to get her shit together. She forces herself to march down there.
The garden pavilion is weirdly absent of the usual traffic of students today, although there are still a few lingering around, eating their lunches or on their laptops. It's not hard to find Sir Stephen sitting on the benches, taking shelter from the harsh sunlight. When she takes a step out from the covered walkways, she can practically feel those damn flowers poking at her from the inside. They can't wait to bask in its light with her.
The thought only hinders her for a few seconds before she lifts her head and meets him. Might as well make her choice today while the weather's nice, regardless of the pollen and morning dew in the air.
"Hi, there," he greets nonchalantly, but his eyes give him away. He's holding himself back from starting an interrogation. She can't blame him. She says hello back and hold a hand over her chest, hoping that she doesn't cough while he asks her what is happening to her.
He plays with his fingers as he searches for his words. "Could you… take your mask off?" Her entire body stiffens. He takes his hands out of his pockets and reaches out to her school bag. "Flower petals sure do get everywhere, don't they?" He holds up a dried pink petal, slightly yellowed from time, but all its veins still visible and its red streaks all the more striking under the light. "You… have Hanahaki, don't you?"
No use fooling a man who has seen more than her.
"At first I thought it was some kind of perfume, but… you don't wear them" He lets the breeze take the expired bit of plant away and watches it twirl in the wind before returning his attention to her.
"Take your mask off," He eased lightly, patting the seat next to him. "It'll be easier if you start coughing up more." At first the student thinks he's taking it rather calmly until she see his hands curl up into fists. Is he that frustrated?
She fulfills his request, seeing as how she doesn't need to hide it anymore. He comfortably slips his hands back into his pockets and shifts his weight to one leg. "Who did you fall in love with?"
Why does everything have to be so to the point and blunt? Why does this have to be so fast? He did her a favor of bringing it up, so it's time to stop running in circles. She has to accept her fate; she had always been running away.
Get it over with, already.
After letting a few moments of silence pass to steady her breathing, she opens her mouth and…
… And it's done.
Sir Stephen blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting her confession to be for him. Kath's heart's going crazy and she's just as surprised at herself for doing that. It just felt like the right choice in the heat of the moment. Minutes pass and he's yet to move or utter a word, unsettling her. He looks away and towards the sunlight. Anxiety possesses her entire body.
She didn't brace herself to get rejected. She didn't need to
"I'm sorry. You're my student."
"I know," She needs to leave. She has to leave right now, why isn't she leaving why aren't her legs moving why can't she why why why whywhywhywhy–
"I'm already engaged…"
She never had a chance to begin with. It feels like her chest and throat are on fire as she run.
That's what she's best at. Running.
She can feel more flowers blooming all over her lungs and heart, vines constricting and wrapping around them before shooting up her throat. She heard him shout after her; is he chasing her?
Flowers get stuck in her throat and she wheezes, blood filling up her mouth as she reflexively cough. A couple burst past her teeth and she managed to flee to the end of a hallway where there weren't any students on the first floor. Her exhausted body has hit its limit and she tumbles to the ground, the flowers continuing to shoot out like a machine gun. Her brain yells at her to do something, anything, to prolong her life, and she's desperately yanking them out the best she can.
It hurts. More than the time of thorns and weeds. It hurts. This hurts.
However, each abrupt shock of pain is nothing. Sir Stephen's apology plays on loop and her agonizing screams don't do anything to deafen it. Even as the flowers' roots dig into her chest and spread, it's not what's causing her heart to rip in two. He never thought about her the same way. He never stayed up at night, nor had his dreams constantly invaded by her. She has never haunted him, the way he had haunted her. He never felt as happy as she did to be around him. He never felt the same, when they debate over silly historical events. When they sip coffee in the cold mornings. When he takes her trembling form in his arms.
He never loved you. He never could and he never will.
Her vision's getting dark and blurry, her head's pounding, her ears are ringing and she can't breathe anymore. Her lower jaw keeps getting pushed down as the bouquet grows, to the point where she thinks it's going to break off. With each breath, she can only smell those vile flowers as her arms drop to her sides. There are so many cuts all over her palms and they're soaked with blood and water; her hands only slip on the stems when she tries to take them out.
This is it the final push.
And at last, her heart and lungs are consumed by the flourish of blossoms.
The seeds of love have been reaped.
