Alastor

You stare at yourself in the mirror, you're deteriorating inside and out. Whether physically or emotionally, both are hard to ignore. The weight of unspoken feelings and unfulfilled desires bears down on you, evident in the furrowed lines etched into your forehead and the downward curve of your lips.

Each breath feels labored, as if the very act of living has become a burden—which, in fact, it has, as you slowly wither away from within. The person reflected in the mirror is a shadow of who you once were, consumed by a love that is as beautiful as it is destructive.

You instinctively touch your chest, fingers gripping tightly onto the fabric, as if you were trying to anchor yourself. You can feel the steady ache beneath your ribs, wondering if your heart can endure this silent torment much longer. (You really couldn't, but you were too stubborn to let go of the feelings that have blossomed over time.)

You felt the nausea rising uncontrollably, so you rush to the toilet, barely making it in time to expel the contents of your stomach. Your body shudders as you retch, the sound of your gagging filling the previously silent bathroom. The harsh and jarring noise of you trying to heave out whatever remains in your stomach echoes around you.

The metallic taste of blood lingers on your tongue, and you involuntarily cough, trying to clear the remnants and catch your breath. Gasping for air between fits, you finally look down into the bowl.

There it is—rose petals mingled with your blood.

You stare at it blankly, the vibrant red petals floating above the water, the scene both grotesque and oddly symbolic. The sight is almost poetic, in a morbid sort of way. Roses, with association with passion, love, and even... romance.

A bitter irony strikes you. Could you even have that kind of romance with him? Is it even possible when he sees you as nothing more than a friend? The thought gnaws on you, making the pain in your chest tighten, not from the illness but from the unfulfilled longing and the cruel twist of fate.

It is just the harsh reality of your condition.

Your mind drifts to thoughts of him, each one a reminder of a knife twisting in the wound of your heart. You recall his smile, the warmth of his voice, and how his presence always seems to light up the whole room. How could something so beautiful lead to something so painful? The petals in the toilet are a stark reminder of the love that consumes you from within, a love that feels both inevitable and utterly impossible.

Unrequited.

You let out a shaky breath as you stood up, feeling disoriented from practically emptying your stomach. As you attempt to step out of the bathroom, you grasp the doorframe for support, but before you can steady yourself, the edges of your vision blur and darkness consumes you.

Your eyes flutter open, struggling to focus on the familiar surroundings of your room. Breathing was difficult; the sensation of restricted airflow became apparent as you gradually woke.

"Ah, awake, my dear?" Alastor's voice cut through the haze. You weakly turned your gaze to your left, following the sound.

Alastor sat in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, as he quietly closed the book he had been reading and set it aside. How long had he been there? Was he aware of what was happening to you? Perhaps not... he might not even be aware of your feelings for him.

But would it even matter, knowing that he didn't feel the same about you?

"You passed out right at the threshold of your bathroom. You had me worried that you might have died! Ahaha!" He attempted to lighten the mood with his usual charm, though there was a slight edge of concern in his tone.

You tried to muster a smile in response, but before you could manage it, a violent cough overtakes you. You brought your hand to your mouth, each harsh cough expelling vibrant red petals—rose petals. Sometimes you wondered if you were starting to hate them or appreciate them. Either way, they reminded you that you were going to die soon.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed with worry as he watched you. The sight of you in such distress seemed to unsettle him. It was uncomfortable. "Dear, perhaps I should call a doctor..." Alastor's voice trailed off as if he was trying to say something more but was struggling to get it out.

But you declined his offer. Calling a doctor would mean revealing the extent of your condition and the possibility of treatment that could remove the source of your suffering. It would also mean erasing your feelings for Alastor, leaving only an empty void where your love once thrived.

You didn't want that.

"Darling... please. Charlie and the others are concerned about you... and so am I. You haven’t been out of your room for some time... and—"

You cut him off, insisting you were okay, that it was just a cold... but you knew that wasn’t the case. You knew it, and he knew it. Alastor's smile faltered slightly as he rose from the chair, moving to your bedside. Gently, he grasped your wrist, his fingers cool against your skin. He lifted your hand, revealing the blood staining your palm and the red petals that gradually fell onto the sheets.

"This doesn't seem like a common cold or fever, {{user}}," he remarked, pointing out the obvious with a look that was both certain and uncertain. His voice, usually brimming with confidence, now held a measurable amount of worry.