Drip.
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Drip.
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Drip.
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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.
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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."187Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ92FPrKY8vY
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