Little Trizha's eyes widened, her heroic posture deflating as she fell momentarily still. The word "cancer" hung in the air, cold and alien.
She didn't expect that to be the answer, let alone to have it dropped into a conversation she had first thought was a game of make-believe.
"And at stage four, at that..." Wyne continued, her voice softening until it was a vulnerably tragic whisper. She picked at the medical tape on her hand, her movements small and weary.
"I-I don't know much about it... I haven't learned the big science words yet. But I know it hurts a lot. It makes me feel weak, like my legs are made of water. And my hair is gone—it all just fell down one day. So no, I'm not a boy. I'm just… a withering flower. That's what my mom told me."
Wyne wanted to look up.
She wanted to meet Trizha's gaze and show her that she was brave, that she was fine despite the tubes and the pale skin.
But she couldn't bring herself to do it. The "smart" girl was suddenly terrified, her mind flooded by the lingering echoes of voices from a world she used to belong to.
「Waa! She has cancer? Get away from her!"
"She might infect us! Stay back, she's in the no-no square!」
「Teacher, is cancer a disease? Like a zombie? I don't want to touch her…」
「Hey, I'm sorry but... my mom says I can't be friends with you anymore.」
Those words were like shards of glass in her memory.
Voices that used to laugh with her on the playground now haunted the quiet corners of her hospital room.
Even at such a young age, Wyne's self-rushed studying had forced her to understand a cruel truth: she was a burden to the comfort of others.
She had decided to acknowledge it all—the isolation, the fear, the inevitable end.
She was a flower, and she was waiting to wither.
"It's a disease, Trizha..." Wyne said, finally lifting her gaze. She moved slowly, her eyes searching Trizha's face with a clinical, heartbreaking precision. "A sickness. There's no 'cure' for it yet... and everyone I used to know left me because they were scared."
Inside, Wyne's mind was already bracing for the impact.
She is going to be disgusted, Wyne thought, her heart sinking.
She'll be scared. She'll regret ever entering this room. It's not my fault, but... it's still going to hurt when she runs away.
She stared at Trizha, her expression a mask of grim expectation.
She had seen this play out so many times that her childhood innocence had been replaced by a thick layer of insecurity.
She hated it, but she couldn't change the way the world worked.
That was just life.
"They're missing out."
The words were so unexpected that Wyne's breath hitched.
Her gaze, which had been drifting toward the floor in anticipation of rejection, snapped back to Trizha.
The girl who had entered her room without consent was standing there, but the "smart" girl was suddenly the one who was confused.
"...What are you talking about?" Wyne asked, her voice trembling.
"Your friends already left you just because you have a very, very, and very bad fever?" Trizha asked, huffing out a breath of pure indignation.
She crossed her arms, looking genuinely offended on Wyne's behalf. "Heh! It only took me three days to lose my nosebleed fever!"
"You little idiot...!" Wyne blurted out, her intellectual side flaring up even through her sadness. "Cancer isn't a—"
"I know!" Trizha interrupted, taking a bold step forward. Her smile was determined and radiant, the total opposite of the disgust Wyne had prepared for. "That's why I said it's a very bad one!"
Trizha reached the edge of the bed, her eyes shining with a fierce, stubborn loyalty.
"What I meant is that your friends missed out on you," Trizha declared, her voice ringing with certainty. "Because... I can tell you're very friendly! And because they're too scared to see that, I'm gonna be your friend. I'll be your friend and I'm never, ever gonna leave you!"
"You... h-how can you be so sure about that?" Wyne stammered, her defenses crumbling.
Before Wyne could finish her sentence, Trizha lunged.
She didn't care about the "no-no square" or the fear of infection.
She reached out and grabbed both sides of Wyne's head with her small hands.
With a sudden, forceful tug, she pulled Wyne's face toward her own, pressing their foreheads and noses together in a clumsy, affectionate snuggle.
Wyne gasped, her eyes going wide as she felt the warmth of Trizha's skin.
For a few long seconds, Trizha held her there, before pulling back just an inch with a smiling, defiant pout.
"W-what did you just do...?" Wyne whispered, her heart hammering.
"I infected myself!" Trizha announced proudly, her face beaming. "I connected our faces, so now I have your sickness too! Now I've proved it. I can't leave you because we're the same now!"
Wyne's eyes welled up, but this time it wasn't from the sting of old words.
For the first time, she stopped "acknowledging" that she was alone.
Someone had stepped across the line.
Someone had looked at the withering flower and decided to stay until the end.
In that moment, an invisible chain formed between them—not a heavy, cold shackle, but a bond as delicate and strong as a pinky-promise.
And above those chains, the tears of the withering flower finally fell.
Wyne lowered her head and sobbed. The tears fell onto the white hospital blanket—a fabric that had seen the blood and final breaths of many others—but now it was being stained by the beginning of a life-long devotion.
For the first time in months, Wyne's pale, cold skin felt a genuine, radiating warmth.
"Trizha... you reckless, stupid idiot...!" Wyne choked out through her tears.
Trizha immediately panicked.
She started waving her arms around, looking for a tissue or a toy, her eyes darting frantically.
"Wait! Don't cry! Did I do it wrong? Does it hurt? I'm sorry! Ma! I broke the bald girl!"
She was completely unaware that Wyne's insult was the highest form of appreciation she could offer.
Wyne wasn't crying because she was sad; she was crying because, for the first time since her diagnosis, she felt like she was finally allowed to live.