hanahaki — stupid kids
Short story based on the mythology of Hanahaki disease — a fictional illness in which a person
coughs up flower petals when suffering from unspoken love.
The only cure is mutual feelings.
Written at sixteen.
Chapter I
A large cup of cold milk stands by the girl’s feet. Her fingers move quickly across the keyboard. The curtains are drawn tightly shut; no moonlight reaches the room. The laptop she watches with a soft smile is the only source of light. She sits on the floor, leaning against an armchair, wrapped in a soft, warm blanket. Her eyes water as she reads the screen again and again, yet the smile never leaves her face.
How many times has she told herself that she isn’t really in love with this boy? That you shouldn’t expect too much from someone you only know through messages. She made a rule for herself: no big words, no confessions. Be careful. Be a little distant. She tried. And he never used big words either. He was strange, but warm. Often she worried she might miss his mood. He never used those stupid emojis — “because, fuck, they’re dumb,” he’d say. And so she held herself back.
That’s why they both loved Sunday evenings most — though neither of them ever admitted it. Every Sunday they talked on Skype. And then they didn’t need emojis or punctuation tricks, because everything was visible on their faces. They talked for so long, so hungrily, that they fell asleep listening to each other’s whispers long past midnight. Not even Monday mornings — with early classes and piles of studying — could stop them.
Their conversations never contained even a hint of vulgarity or sex. But believe this: in their minds the most passionate scenes unfolded, scenes they both chose to leave unspoken, swallowing the words nervously. He imagined touching her knees with his fingers, the knees she always held close with her hands, and her delicate wrists slipping out from the long sleeves of her sweaters. She imagined his lips on her own, the lips he licked far too often. They had never confessed their feelings to each other. Yet neither of them took any of the chances to start other relationships in real life — opportunities that appeared often enough.
Even if it was only through messages, they were close. Even if they left many things unsaid, they could never deny themselves the quiet thrill of reading an immediate reply from the other — that small tremor in their hands, the innocent smile that followed.
They lived in different cities, on opposite ends of the country. He studied psychology. She studied philology. Ordinary choices, perhaps. But both of them were hopeless romantics, fiercely protective of their dreams. She didn’t even want to allow herself to ask whether they would ever meet in real life. And he constantly rehearsed in his mind the answer to that possible question — an answer he didn’t actually have. He wondered why she was still alone, but never asked. He was afraid the answer might ruin something.
They told each other everything. And yet so much remained unsaid. That silence held them on the delicate edge between reason and reckless feeling. It protected their tenderness, their carefulness, never allowing complete honesty to vulgarize the fragile, unbearable longing between them.
And at night they woke up choking with coughs, only to find themselves in the morning scattered with dark burgundy rose petals. Each of them knew what it meant. Each thought that confessing would be childish. Naive. So each of them stayed silent. They both collected the petals in small vases and little boxes. But this was the part they never spoke about.
What they could say to each other were simpler things: “good morning, good night, enjoy your meal”. Small reproaches like: “You should take your medicine — you’re always getting sick.” And: “You shouldn’t drink boiling water — you’ll burn your tongue off.”
And just a minute ago he wrote to her that tomorrow at noon he is arriving. She cries while smiling, clutching the soft blanket in her hands, unable to believe her own happiness. And for the first time he added an emoji. Which means he’s excited about their meeting no less than she is.
Her throat dries from the tears, and she takes a sip of milk. It’s so cold that goosebumps run across her skin.
Or maybe it isn’t the milk at all.
Chapter II
It is spring outside, and the sun is already warm enough, but the cool breeze keeps the warmth from becoming unbearable. The girl doesn't exit, she practically flies out of the taxi, saying goodbye to the driver with a smile. Beautiful weather for a beautiful occasion. She tossed and turned all night and barely slept, but no trace of morning exhaustion remains on her face. She is excited, and a little shy by the fact that in just ten more minutes she will finally see him. From nerves, she grips the straps of her backpack tightly and keeps biting her lip. She walks up to the main entrance of the station, drops onto the steps, feels anxious, and thinks that she would rather have been late than sit here like this and wait for the person she loves(?).
Well... She needs to calm down. The waiting makes her close her eyes and give herself to the cool breeze ruffling her dark hair. She tries to tune in to everything happening around her, but after a moment she realizes she can only hear her own heartbeat, and that closed eyes and deep breathing are doing nothing to help. So she starts watching people instead. Over there by the fountain are two little girls clapping their hands with delight, showing their mother how wonderful the water flakes are; on the alley, in the shade, an ample woman in a pretty apron sells cotton candy, ice cream, and drinks; ten steps away, a father kisses his daughter on the forehead and sees her off — for a long while, it seems — giving her his last warnings and advice; a family with a stroller; an elderly man with a small dog; a couple in love; a boy in sunglasses walking in her direction; a police officer... The boy. He waves and is clearly heading toward her.
Breathe.
He had arrived five minutes earlier and gone straight to buy himself some green tea. The hot liquid burned his tongue and throat again, making him wince, swear under his breath, and toss the unfinished cup into the bin. Nerves. He looked around and spotted her. Sitting with her eyes closed, biting her lip. A smile appeared on his face on its own. But he doesn't rush to approach her just yet. It took him too long to admit to himself that he liked her — very much. Now he wants to savour every moment. He watches her fuss with her hands and open her eyes. He watches her wrinkle her nose in that funny way and almost laughs. He gathers all his nerve and walks toward her. When he realizes she saw him, he waves. He thinks he must look like an idiot, but he can't make himself stop smiling. He curses inwardly — "What the hell is wrong with me, being this soft and giddy, when I'm usually cold and composed?" And then the girl wraps her arms around him and, holding her, he breathes in her scent. Roses. Barely there, but familiar enough to make his throat ache.
He takes her hand in his and doesn't let go for the rest of the day. She laughs with genuine delight at his sharp remarks about the people around them, and that laughter stings in his throat. So he drinks something hot at every opportunity. She finds it strange — "It's spring, the sun is warm", — but he only strokes her head and hums to himself, pleased. And she is ready to melt from a single glance of his, let alone from his touch. Because of that her palm burns when they hold hands, but her throat aches even more. So she eats ice cream and drinks cold things, anything to keep herself from coughing. He lies that the journey didn't tire him at all. She lies that she slept well. They lie that they are comfortable with each other, because that is not the truth at all. Both of them suffer, holding back their coughs, deceiving themselves and each other.
Stupid kids.
He loses himself watching her as she debates which film they should see. She is so vivid, so alive, that Alex wants to take all of her in — but he only holds her hand in his, and for now that is enough. He thinks that if he weren't such a coward, he would have told her long ago. But it isn't in his nature. And she never hinted.
— So, do you want to see a comedy, or should we go for a drama? — she looked at him as though his answer might save her life.
He was afraid he wouldn't be able to hold himself together.
— Comedy, little one. Life already has enough tears.
He listened to her laughter and regretted the choice immediately. He had spared her from discomfort but thrown himself into agony. The bright, bell-like peals of her laughter struck his throat as though strangling him with a thousand cords. But he suffered through it and drank his barely-warm coffee. "Better if she'd just strangled me for real."
She laughed genuinely at the jokes on screen and felt his hand next to hers as something entirely, undeniably real. Her mood shot through the roof.
After dinner at a small, cosy restaurant, she took him to a bridge. She wanted to share her sunset with him. He loved evenings. She leaned her arms on the railing and closed her eyes with pleasure. He stood behind her, breathing in the scent of the evening water. She flinched when he put his arms around her shoulders. She had a thought that it would be wonderful to stretch this moment into a tender kiss, and he imagined whispering in her ear that he had fallen for her like the last fool in the world. But then she remembered that he had never once mentioned anything like a relationship, and he thought that the role of a friend wasn't so bad, if friendship could feel like this.
Idiots.
She only rests her head on his shoulder and says that feeling him is so much better than only imagining it. And he kisses the top of her head and says he is glad to have finally met his little one in person.
She dreams of a cup of cold milk to put out the fire inside her. Cold liquid won't help a burning heart, but she doesn't know that yet. He no longer recognizes himself, and doubt creeps into his mind: perhaps it's time to be brave for once?
She is afraid to fall asleep, because she surely won't be able to control her cough then, and that would be rather embarrassing. He curses himself for his lack of foresight and thinks it would have been smarter to stay at the hotel.
But all they do is wish each other sweet dreams and go to their separate rooms.
On her nightstand sits the longed-for cup of cold milk, while Alex only pulls his blanket tighter and buries his head beneath it. She breathes slowly and deeply, eyes closed — but she probably won't fall asleep tonight at all.
The boy's phone vibrates, and he reads the message: "Are you sleeping?"
Sofia Teo, April 2016
To be filmed.