tom holland oneshots

cups

warnings : cursing, anxiety attack (very detailed) 

summary : part three to boomerang

word count : 2000

There's two faucets, each with a cup under, catching the liquids. There's one that flows consistently, one she drinks out of on the daily. The other comes out in drips, in which she sips from the cup rarely. Now, the rare cup is overflowing, so much that she can't drink all of it. She's drunk on it now, and she's not sure where the end or the start is anymore. The other cup has stopped flowing all together. The once consistent flow that kept her thriving and hydrated was now barren and dry. 

One would complain about how different the two beverages taste, one being bitter and sour and tart, the other sweet and honeyed and enjoyable. But not her. Maybe the whole point of having both is to keep them balanced. Maybe that's where the fault line is, where the recurring problem always starts from. Maybe nobody is ever supposed to have too much of one beverage; perhaps it needs to be even, balanced, steady. One thing's for sure, you're always supposed to have both; never neither. 

Y/N's in a pickle. Out of the two of them, she wasn't the actor. But now, pretending is her main task; something she must do everyday just to survive to the next. It starts at her friends house, the place she'd ran off to when things went crumbling down. To any outsider, the split wasn't as drastic as others, though the pair didn't exactly end on great terms, one would expect both to hold no grudges or remain satisfied. When they said the game of love was a battlefield, nobody ever told them it would be war.

She's sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room. Despite the name, the room is anything but alive. It's dead and cold and dull and unwelcoming. The welcome mat outside could even be considered click-bait, in Y/N's opinion. But nobody had ever cared about Y/N's opinions. Or her feelings. Or her thoughts or struggles or ideas or wishes. Because she's the nurturer, the person other people turn to when they want to show insights of their lives. Y/N had never gotten the opportunity to do the same. 

At one point, though, she thought she had found the person she could do that to. But of course, things went crashing down, the foundation crumbling and cracking until piles of rubble and concrete were left, dust wafting through the air and making her lungs burn. 

Three weeks have passed, and by the middle of the fourth week, Harrison had told her about his accident with the car. She wanted to be there -- as the person who sat with him in the ambulance, or the person who was driving the car -- she wasn't sure, but she knew she wanted to be there. She almost drove to the hospital; the keys were in her hand and the door was opened, but she had ultimately decided that he didn't want her like he used to. 

The heart does a lot to a human. Love is like blood, the source of living and anyone's lifeline; you need it to survive, the heart needs it. That's why the heart pumps it 24/7, flushes it through the body and asks the lungs for continuous support in doing so. Y/N used to be breathing heavily, panting as the love ran through her veins and pumped her heart, filling her soul and her skeleton. Now, she was lying on the floor in an empty void, bleeding out the love that once kept her alive. It's ironic, how the thing you need is also the thing that gets you killed. 

"Get up," Aisha nudges Y/N with her foot. "get off the floor for once." 

Groaning, Y/N sat up, head rush flooding her skull as she rolled her eyes. "What?" she whined. 

"Let's go out tonight." 

"Absolutely not." 

"Absolutely yes," Aisha cuts her short, standing up and reaching for Y/N's hands to help her stand too. "You said you would; I've already promised the gang we'd be there."