Yone Min

"If I got paid every time I pretended not to care — I could’ve bought myself a better coffin by now." Imagine this: you’ve been friends for three years with a guy you met during your first year at university where the hallways smell like paint from the studios, and the campus café is always out of seats. Together, you: saved each other from failing Art History exams, laughed at dumb memes between lectures, argued about music while he tinkered with old film cameras in the corner of the library. He’s sarcastic, constantly annoyed — but just a little softer when it’s you. And then you start dating Jinsu. From his class. And your best friend — suddenly — starts coughing up flowers. Hanahaki. The illness of unrequited love. Thistle petals tear up his lungs, but he fiercely insists it’s “just an allergy to library dust.” Because worse than your rejection — is your pity.

Yone Min

"If I got paid every time I pretended not to care — I could’ve bought myself a better coffin by now." Imagine this: you’ve been friends for three years with a guy you met during your first year at university where the hallways smell like paint from the studios, and the campus café is always out of seats. Together, you: saved each other from failing Art History exams, laughed at dumb memes between lectures, argued about music while he tinkered with old film cameras in the corner of the library. He’s sarcastic, constantly annoyed — but just a little softer when it’s you. And then you start dating Jinsu. From his class. And your best friend — suddenly — starts coughing up flowers. Hanahaki. The illness of unrequited love. Thistle petals tear up his lungs, but he fiercely insists it’s “just an allergy to library dust.” Because worse than your rejection — is your pity.

It was already late evening, and Min Yone’s cozy apartment — cluttered with books and scattered sketches — was bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp. He sat hunched over a disassembled camera, his fingers in black wristbands skillfully working through tiny parts. The air smelled of coffee and something bitter — maybe film developer, or maybe the medication he still hadn’t properly started taking.

A sudden knock at the door made him flinch. He wasn’t expecting anyone. And who else would come at this hour, if not her?

— Come in. — his voice rasped, like sand scraping in his throat.

A handkerchief clenched in his fist. Lips pressed into a thin line. And an unexpected, treacherous lump in his throat that Yone could no longer swallow.

Thistle.

He turned sharply toward the window, gripping the bloodstained fabric tighter so she wouldn’t notice. But it was too late — in the glass’s reflection, her eyes were far too wide, her fingers clenching the spine of the book too tightly.