#district4419

When you were 15, you were over at chans almost every day. Your parents had became best friends, and most nights you were found at each other’s houses, eating dinner and watching tv. Most days, he would come home from school and find you sitting on his couch already. Not that he minded of course, you were his closest friend, and you knew not to touch his secret stash of sweets hidden in the box beneath his bed.

Often, you two lay at opposite ends of the beds, your feet at the others head. Neither of you minded unless the other had pe that day and stunk up the place. Rare, but not foreign to you two.

At 17, he took you to prom. You had no interest in any of the guys in your school, all of them far too Player-like for your liking. Even Minho- Chans friend, had asked you to prom and you almost said yes until you saw him look behind you at Susie and her low cut top. You tried your hardest not to slap him and denied him before turning away to walk to Chan.

He had been thinking of asking you but was too scared of what you would think about it. He would be lying to himself if he didn’t notice how cute you were when you smiled, how your teeth were slightly crooked but you didn’t care about it, you were proud of them. Your eyes crinkled as you walked over, and your smile was enough to make Chan focus on you, and you alone.

“Chan, I don’t like Minho, he’s a dickhead and I never wanna see him again,” you sighed before dramatically falling into your chair. His laugh was booming, and he shook you until you looked up.

“Y/N.... do you wanna go to prom with me? Nobody else will go with me, and the way you’re talking about Minho.... I guess it didn’t go well?” Chan looked at you, still smiling even though his heart was about to beat out of his chest. You looked at him, and you were so thankful for him. You agreed, and then started planning your outfits. The most you cared about was the colour of the dress and tie situation- it didn’t even have to be a tie, Chan could show up wearing goddamn coloured sweatpants for all you cared, and you would still go with him.

Chan offered to take you dress shopping but that boy had the fashion sense of a penguin with a mismatching tux, and you wanted to dress up for once. You went with your friend BamBam instead, he was helping Chan with his tux and knew what kinda dress would suit your body shape. Bam the fashionista threw clothes in your arms before telling you to try them on, and then walked to the seats in the changing rooms, waiting for you. You agreed, and Bam barely looked up from his phone as he denied dress after dress, saying they were too slim, to short or too long, too baggy etc. It was the 5th dress you’d tried on, and if he said no to this one then you were going to leave. This time Bam looked up for over a minute before smiling and saying this was the one, to leave the other 4 and buy this one. You rolled your eyes at how dramatic he was, but agreed and bought the dress yourself despite Bam saying endlessly that he would pay. He bought you the shoes of course, he had to provide you with something for your big day.

Two months later, it was prom. Chan had arrived at your house a few minutes ago, but you were too scared to go down and meet him, after all, this was prom and who knows if he would be as excited as you. Your mother dragged you downstairs and shoved you next to him, forcing you to take picture after picture.

Chan was giddy and complimented you again and again on how you looked and how your hair was perfect and your eyes were stunning. You thanked him over and over and his eyes saw only you and your smile and your beauty.

Your beauty. You’re beautiful. You felt stunning with how everyone complimented you, none more so than Chan.

Your beauty. His mind was always on you and how you couldn’t be any more perfect than you were that night.

At 17, Chan got his first flower. It was the night after prom, and he was curled next to his toilet on the cold tile floor. The tiles chilled his skull until he felt like it would shatter into a million pieces and there wouldn’t be enough to put him back together but he kept his skull flush to the floor, begging to feel something other than the ache in his throat and the blood in his lungs.

For hours, he lay with his shattered skull and bloody lungs until he coughed up the petals and thorns for the first time and he ran screaming from the toilet, away from the bitter fucking truth that he loved you and you didn’t feel the same about him. Maybe you never would. Maybe it would be easier for him to stop the pain now rather than let the flowers bloom in his lungs and blossom from his lips every damn night.

But maybe you would love him back. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe.

At 20, Chan had a flower every night for you, a flower for every single love he held for you, for every type of love he held in his heart. He saved a petal from each flower and pressed them, hiding it from everyone but hoping that one day you could see the book.

Every day he saw you, you were smiling and laughing and happy and so fucking beautiful it hurt his heart and crawled up his throat with it's claws buried deep down, scraping his vocal chords and making him say “I’m fine, nothing hurts” over and over and and over over over over-

The last time you saw Chan was when you were 21. He had a suit on for the second time since you knew him, and his face was peaceful and calm. It was natural causes the doctors said, extremely natural. The vases of flowers next to him said otherwise. The red for love, the blue for heartbreak. His mother, a kind calm woman, could barely look at you as you approached her, and snapped as you tried to hug her.

“It’s your fault! It’s your fucking fault!! If you loved him, he would still be here.” She yelled, crying as she searched your face for any signs of guilt or remorse. She must have found something because she turned and left, going to find her husband among the crowd of people surrounding you, looking at you in shame and accusing you without knowing.

At 22, you were given his book.

Every page was a rainbow hidden by the ink of his lungs and the thorns of his heart, and you could feel every single one of them pierce your soul and burn your eyes.

“Aster // Symbolises love, trust”

“Pink and Red Carnations // Symbolises missing and admiring someone”

“Maybe one day I’ll get the last flower. The last thorn. They’ll stop ripping up my throat as they come up, every unmentioned ‘I Love You’ and every whispered ‘You look pretty today’. Maybe I won’t want to rip the roots out of my stomach and feel the pain stop. Maybe.”

At 22, you got your first flower. The first flower for a love lost, for a love too late to do anything about.

At 22, you felt the first thorn pierce your tongue and rip your gum until you were bleeding “I’m sorry’s” and “I miss you’s”.