Drip.
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Drip.
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Drip.
65Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSrf4ilQxI6
Drip.
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In the blink of an eye, the once drizzling April shower which had enveloped the entire entrance of the university stopped, leaving an aftermath of muddied streets and dirtied sneakers. A pair of eyes watched as countless students burst out the doors, voices muffled together like a chorus of chaos. Under the awning, the observer leaned on the dusty walls of the college - that haven't been repainted since before she was born.
65Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHqPW5CE6ac
Beneath the thin, delicate black fabric of her niqab, her pale lips were opened slightly. Each breath was like a battle, - uneven, disordered - and she was rapidly losing. Her chest constricted, and she pressed a gloved hand against the rough popcorn wall, hanging on to it like a lifeline. As air entered her lungs, the pain worsened, her bruised ribs screaming in agony. 'La hawla wala quatta ila bi allah' she thought to herslef.
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She looked around her, only to find that almost everyone had left, save a few staff and a lone student busy on their phone.
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Hesitantly, she brought her shaking hand to her chest, whispering with a hoarse voice abused by her suffering, "B-bismiallah , bismiallah, bismiallah."65Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡoRELgWiiba
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