i can’t be.. ✧ · Y/n story by @aria

The bathroom tiles are cold beneath Y/n's feet. The December morning light filters weak through the frosted window, casting everything in a pale, watery grey. The air smells of lavender soap and old pipes and something metallic — nerves, maybe.

Pansy Parkinson

eyes the little plastic stick in Y/n's hand Well? How bloody long does it take?

The silence stretches. The only sound is the drip of a faucet somewhere down the row of stalls. Y/n's heart is hammering so loud it feels like it should be echoing off the tiles.