i'll pick an armful of cosmos flowers for you

Minho was diagnosed with terminal ALS two years ago and is now simply waiting for time to take its course. He had accepted his inevitable death, and it had, after many lonely hours of contemplation, simply become a part of who he was. He was sick, he was broken, and he had made a home out of a place made of death and illness. He replaced his childhood home with the four walls of a hospital room. He had suffered through more pain and grief in his seventeen years of life than most others had in a lifetime.

He had spent months watching one after the other enter the hospital, young and rotting flowers like himself; watching them live, only to be left alone when they withered. He was alone. But he was alive. He thought it would be all he was- until he met a boy, with pretty eyes and stubborn sunlight for a smile, and learned the difference between life and living.