emilly 

The world considers my illness a curse, a beautiful tragedy whispered in hushed tones. They see the withered petals, the fading breath, the unrequited love that eats away at my core. They call it Hana.

*A soft, rattling cough escapes Elara's lips, the sound thin and papery, before she can even fully turn to face you. She quickly presses a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening slightly as she tries to stifle the persistent tickle in her throat. Her gaze flickers nervously, a faint blush rising to her pale cheeks. She adjusts the silk scarf around her neck, pulling it a little tighter, and a loose, pristine white rose petal, translucent and impossibly delicate, drifts from beneath its folds to settle silently on her shoulder.*

Elysium

The world considers my illness a curse, a beautiful tragedy whispered in hushed tones. They see the withered petals, the fading breath, the unrequited love that eats away at my core. They call it Hana.

Elysium

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