Don't Give, Just Take | F. Weasley

46 | Carved Initials

Safeiarrah stared at her ceiling, the hour struck already and she was still sunk on her bed. It felt unfamiliar. She has been awake for nearly thirty-seven hours. She couldn't sleep. The bed wasn't as warm as her bed at the inn or as filled as his bed.

The alarm clock squealed next to her ear for the third time but the screeching noise didn't seem to bother her as she tapped its top. She sat on her bed, staring into another area of space.

It was eight in the morning. It would be nine around London at the moment. He's probably preparing to open the shop for the day by now. She thought, curling her toes as she pushed herself off the mattress.

She slipped her feet in her fuzzy sliders. A robe wrapped her figure and she hugged herself on her way to the kitchen. Boxes scattered everywhere in her apartment.

The calming scent of vanilla spread throughout the whole place. She lit up a candle to pet her senses down. The sun lit brightly through the windows of her living room. She slid into the balcony, enjoying the summer breeze of the city.

Little tingles from a type of longing... a warmth she wished that wrapped her on her waist from behind. A searing breath she anticipated as the rush of morning approached. She shook her head with a sharp breath.

You don't deserve to miss him. You broke up with him. A voice in her head reminded her. Harsh as it was, she knew it was true to the bone. She clutched her hands together, propping them over the railing.

A glimpse over her shoulder back to the brown figures, "That's a lot of work." She breathed out, craning her head back down the singing street.

When the kettle sang it's unholy prayers, shrieking with the pain of its bottom, she walked back in to pour the water in a small porcelain pot. And then let the herbs settle its scent and taste as she maneuvered to cook a little bit of breakfast.

By eight thirty, she took a shower and was ready to leave by nine forty-five. The shower was a little too tempting for her as the warmth of the pressing rain shot down on her skin like arrows. A few thoughts and 'what ifs' were thoroughly rinsed as the liquid trailed down her body.

She walked down the street of Paris. The lit up joy and judgement filled air was swarming. A couple of smiles and greetings were exchanged. Some looked at her up and down (the way her silver gray trousers sat straight down along her legs to her ankles matched her white with three thin black stripes on her chest fitted long sleeve.)

Safeiarrah savoured the breeze. She pushed each thought of him down the back of her mind. No. Not yet, I need to heal. She whispered along her longing heart.

She arrived at a 30 story building. The lobby was filled with people, curious people, muggles and wizards and witches (cautiously dressed 'normal'). She walked closest to the wall, glancing ever so often at the anticipated and interested faces as the crowd's eyes roamed at the wide room.

At the top floor—where her office, a couple other people's offices, and numerous meeting rooms resided—there waited for her new healers and doctors.

Zeal greeted her first with a smile over his face. "Coffee?" He asked, handing a to-go cup in her hand. He looked... professional. Better than the past few months where she knew he dreaded over the person he loved for long years.

Maybe Safe and Zeal didn't just find their similarities relatable. It was the thought that maybe one of them has the answer on how to get over such a situation... such pain. That one solution was enough for both of them. That the emptiness they both wanted to fill was nothing against the friendship they had.

Safe smiled softly and nodded despite the cup already warming her hand. She stood in front of the room, her chin up high. And as if on cue, everyone in the room stopped their chatters and brought their attention to her.