━ seven ; oblivion of stars

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—— ・:*:・゚★ ・:*:・゚★ ——𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫

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—— :*:・゚★ :*:・゚★ ——
𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫

❝ oblivion of stars !
—— :*:・゚★ :*:・゚★ ——

─── SHE'S DROWNING IN neon saccharine and languid efflorescence, salty waves and ebony streaks cascading down her cheeks. For once, the girl who was suspected to be radiant, to be smiley, wasn't all vibrancy and joy. Rather, she was swathed in shards of heartbreak, shrouded in an obsidian and alabaster cloak of melancholy. Francisca 'Frankie' Andrews sat at the bar of The Three Broomsticks, a sickly sweet residue of gold circling the rim of the glass in front of her, dregs of Butterbeer lingering forgotten at the bottom. Indigo ink with blotches of tear drops cost the scratchy, yellowing piece of parchment clutched between her whitening, shaking hands. Fickle mind drenched with silhouettes, plagued by looming phantoms and unquenchable darkness that no amount of whiskey soaking her throat in the darkest midnight sheens of the night could ever seem to erase or satisfy. She was completely, utterly, wholesomely, lost, a silken just had swallowed the path that was supposed to guide her through her life, and she was staggering, upon calloused hands and torn knees.

Frankie's eyes skim along the words over and over again, and she can't seem to visualise the truth, or the reality, encased in the drifting sentences. Your father and I are filing for a divorce, your father and I are filing for a divorce, your father and I are filing for a divorce. She repeats it like a melancholic mantra, and for once the whispers rolling from her alcohol-drenched tongue aren't contagious songs of mirth, but a sonnet written by the most haunted of poets. Frankie swallows. Hard. Bile was crawling it's way up her oesophagus. The crimson that painted the beds of her nails which had faded over time was being picked viciously, vehemently, without any precaution. The currents of her bloodstream had been mutilated, concocted by the most vilest poison-disappointment, sadness, heartbreak, a naive misunderstanding. How could two people who once though the world of each other... just fall out of love? At what point in this fragile life did they lose those feelings? At what point in this fragment of time they were gifted upon this spinning rock did they stop caring? And at what point did they agree on this finalising, life-affecting decision without so much as discussing that they were unhappy, that the fire of their love had turned to embers, to ashes, and eventually to nothing, with Frankie?

"Third time this week, Frankie," Rosmerta pipes up, eyeing the dark-skinned girl glumly perching upon the tattered, wobbly stool, pouring something that looked ambiguously and deliriously like whiskey into a glass. Frankie's eyes slither upward, analysing the barren fields of freckles scattered over her pretty face. "Something up, darlin'?" When Frankie said nothing, Rosmerta slid the glass along the bar to the old, cloaked wizard who had requested it, before she leant over the ornate wood of the bar, staring into Frankie's surrendering spheres of dark brown, long lashes framing the eerie orbs. "Y'know, I should lettering Dumbledore to tell 'im about your rendezvous down 'ere, skipping lessons and all that." The emotionless, unfazed look that kept Frankie's somber face unreadable caused Rosmerta to groan aloud. "C'mon, darlin', I ain't about to snitch on Charlie Andrew's daughter, am I?" At the mention of her father, Frankie stiffened, nails engraving into the parchment. "Tell Ros what's going on."

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