☆

[y/n]

—

I FELL IN LOVE IN SEPTEMBER.

It was in the Fall, September 23rd, when the leaves weren't fully gone from the trees, and the birds were still roaming the streets like they usually did. Harmony—if you could call it that—but it was normal at the very least. Well, until the moment my life went spiraling downwards without control.

I could barely remember anything, but I remembered crashing into my living room, desperate for a break. There was a click of a remote, the flash of a red letter on the telly, a rush of a bicycle, a speeding train, a girl who loved mysteries, a bag falling to the floor, and then there was him.

Louis Partridge.

Or, well, Tewksbury. He had bribed a porter to smuggle him onto the train, and as soon as he sawed himself out of the stuffy, ol' bag, I remember falling off my couch and hitting my head on the coffee table. He was pretty. The kind of pretty that shouldn't exist, because it makes absolutely no sense how someone could ever look so effortlessly beautiful in a world full of self-doubt and insecurities. But somehow, I fell in love with him.

Not real love, I don't think, but admirable love.

I don't know him personally, knew I'd never meet him, and yet I found myself scrolling through my phone with his name Googled into my device. I'm not sure what I was searching for, but I still haven't found it. I'm just as stuck on him as I had been that first day I saw him through the screen.

But no, I'd never meet him.

Though I could barely close my eyes without daydreaming of it.

"Just give it a try," Monica said, dragging a swipe of clear polish over her nails, "I shifted yesterday and snogged Harry Potter."

I looked up from my pile of homework, furrowing my brows in disbelief. I'd let myself start zoning out for what felt like the millionth time, but I had my excuses—my friend was terrible when it came to talking about things I found interesting, because her vocabulary was centered around 'boys' and 'cute boys' and 'the occasional girl, but still boys'—and I could barely hear about romantics without wanting to cringe.

It wasn't real, I was sure of it. I just had a simple crush on a celebrity now and then, but then I'd be back to my sideways, lonely, and #neverbeenkissed life. The usual.

I gave her a sideways glance of disbelief. "Did you really?"

Monica grinned. "He's a good kisser."

"Funny," I mumbled, "I distinctly remember him screwing up a kiss with Cho Chang in the Room of Requirements. Are you sure you snogged the same Harry?"

The girl, who was donned in various Slytherin apparel that she bought online, gasped horrifically. Her short black hair nearly fell into her eyes when she did so, but she shook it off to the side in spite. Never doubt Monica Bernstein, she'll go berserk.

"Don't make fun of me," she snapped, chucking her bottle of nail polish at my head, "I scripted him to be different."

"What's the point of having him if you change him anyways?" I shot back, ducking the blow.

"It's the thought that counts," she argued.

"And it's my thought that counts yours as ridiculous," I frowned, wincing when the nail polish crashed against my desk, "please stop bothering me about this, I'm trying to finish my project."

I heard her sigh in exasperation, before busying herself with her phone.

She was talking to me about 'shifting', something I labeled as completely untrue and impossible. Apparently it started blowing up on TikTok (she found it on her Harry Potter side of the app) and never stopped talking about it since. They say if you concentrate hard enough, you'd be able to switch from your current reality and into your desired one.

Rubbish.

Rolling the polish off to the side, I began to continue sorting my English notecards into neat stacks, ignoring the music trickling out of Monica's speakers.

I am lost...the music sang, accompanied by flashing images of Draco Malfoy beating up Harry Potter, I am lost...dun nun nun nun (and whatever comes after that).

I wish she'd turn it off.

─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

I'M NOT A PESSIMIST, I SWEAR.

I just have a lot of built up angst running through my blood, because I've been knocked over more times than I can count on my fingers, and I'm the only one out of my two friends that have—and I constantly say—never been kissed.

It's become my defining trait at school, actually.

"Hey [y/n]!" Someone called out from behind me, "what's it like growing up a spinster?"

I flipped them off, not bothering to turn around and see who it was. It wasn't even good bullying (not that bullying is good, it's not something I agree with or condone), but it's just a pathetic attempt at it. They call me 'The Spinster', because I'm apparently going to grow up alone and never marry.

Which sounds great to me, but apparently not for them.

I don't pay it any mind. Whenever it gets unbearable, I thank Netflix for casting Louis Partridge in the role of Tweksbury, because I find comfort in watching his interviews on my phone during lunch break. Monica and Heather, my friends, don't go to the same school as me. I'm alone most of the time—a spinster, remember?

From there, I'd go to my Botanical studies, where I would study flowers and herbs in the hopes it would land me a career doing something I loved. Yeah, Tewks and I have something in common: we both like flowers. That's partially why I fell for him so hard, because owning a flower shop is on my bucket list.

Which will never happen, but it doesn't hurt to dream.

"It's not real, you know," Heather sighed, pushing open the shop doors, "Monica's been going on, and on, and on about it, and I don't think she knows how silly she sounds."

After school, I met up with my second friend to pick up my weekly bundle of flowers for botany. It was required for my after school curricular, but I didn't mind getting to poke and prod plants to find out more about them. I found a shop down by Abbots Lane called 'Queen's Bouquets' and it's become my second home.

"She's still talking about that shifting thing?" I frowned, scurrying through an isle of roses, "weird."

Heather stopped walking, plucking a yellow flower from it's display vase. "She's convinced she can change Tom Riddle for the better this time."

I furrowed my brow. "I thought it was Harry Potter?"

"She changed targets."

"Who's next? Snape?"

"Knowing her, maybe," the red-head smirked, dropping the flower back, "she ends up liking everyone at one point."

I pursed my lips at that remark, resuming my walk through the store. I had to get to the desk in the back for my flowers. Today's assortment was supposed to be lilacs, lavender, and tulips, but I was hoping for Daisies, though. They were simple but pretty flowers, and I found myself drawn to them more than anything else.

Heather dawdled around the shop while I carried on with my business, because she never found this sort of thing interesting. She was a geek for the theater, and if something didn't involve spontaneous singing, she'd give it a pass.

"Hey Lauren," I smiled, approaching the desk, "bouquet number seven, right?"

The curly-haired woman looked up from her computer, her expression softening when she saw me. Lauren Montillier was a French lady who I'd made friends with, since I spent more time browsing her shop than any other person did. That's why I picked Queen's Bouquets to sponsor my botany studies—she was the best of the best, and I was on her good side (discounts, eheh).

"[y/n]," she drawled out, rising from her chair, "it's actually week eight."

I gasped. "Already?"

"Time flies when you're having fun."

I watched as she reached under her desk for a hold-box, plucking a small bundle of flowers into her hands. It was wrapped in brown paper, tied together with a white string, and my heart fluttered at the sight.

PLANT TIME!

"Thank you!" I grinned widely, taking it gracefully from her hands, "you're the best, Lauren, I mean it."

The woman gave me a throaty laugh, ushering me away with a smile. Clutching the flowers against my chest, I yanked Heather away from the sunflowers, dragging her out the door and back into the busy streets of London.

─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

"I'M SERIOUS," Monica pressed, pushing me onto my bed, "you need to shift."

I'm not one who enjoys being manhandled (or is it womanhandled?) after I had a breakdown over watching Enola Holmes for the millionth time, but for some reason I felt easily manipulated today.

I'd gotten home from the flower shop around dusk, but my phone was flooded with 'Spinster' jokes from trolls from my school the second I opened my phone. They were hurtful and crude, and since I was in the privacy of my own home, I let them affect me on full blast. It shouldn't have been a big deal—they were only calling me ugly, unwanted, and unable to be loved by anyone—but that hurt. Words hurt like hell, no matter how many times I tried to ignore it.

Monica and Heather were knocking on my door the second they heard me crying on a FaceTime call, and the normal 'make [y/n] happy' routine went into action.

            #1. Eat a tub of ice cream: It was supposed to help me quench my sorrows through food, but Heather was lactose-intolerant, and I felt bad eating without her. I decided to skip this rule for today.

            #2. Let Monica kill the trolls who hurt me: which was obviously not going to happen under my watch, but I appreciated her sympathy.

And finally, my favorite:

            #3. Watch Enola Holmes: my comfort movie, with my comfort character, and Louis Partridge. Something about the film made me feel so at ease, and watching it made me feel instantly better.

Until I started crying over my inability to meet Louis as soon as the credits started rolling, and that's how I ended up being thrown onto my bed by an angry Monica, while Heather was passed out on the couch downstairs (she never stayed up late).

"Shifting isn't real, Monnie," I groaned, wiping my tear-stained eyes with the back of my hand, "just let me cry it all out."

The girl had hellfire burning through her eyes, and she nearly slapped the pessimist out of me in an instant. She didn't, thankfully, and instead pinned me down by the shoulders, glaring through my soul like I was mere glass. I winced under her forceful weight.

"Shifting is real, because I've done it before," she snapped, "and I'm not going to watch you cry over not meeting your celebrity crush, when you very well can."

I rolled my eyes. "But it's not in real life."

"It still counts."

"Rubbish."

"Don't you dare take that tone with me, missy," she hissed, "now listen to me very closely, and thank me when you wake up."

I almost zoned out when she started explaining the rules of 'shifting', because it was like she was speaking a foreign language. Apparently, you could get to your desired reality in different methods: Alice In Wonderland, Pillow Method, Raven Method, and whatever else she said...

If I could make it to this (totally not true) reality, then I'd be able to unofficially meet Louis Partridge.

It was almost laughable at how ridiculous it sounded.

"Okay, arms out like this," Monica's voice said, bringing me back to consciousness. She had maneuvered me into a starfish position, muttering things under her breath as she finally got me to stop squirming. "Now close your eyes and start counting down from one-hundred."

"Monica, I'm not—"

"Shut up and do it, you idiot."

"Hey!"

"I will hold you down if you keep resisting," she threatened, "now try it, or you'll regret it."

Glaring at her spitefully, I closed my eyes, beginning to do as she said. It wasn't going to happen though, and I don't know why she had so much faith. 100...I'd be wasting my time counting like this. 99...I hate myself for doing this. 98...Monica's hand is pressing my shoulder blade into the mattress, and it hurts.

... 57...

Even if I do shift into some world where Louis Partridge knows I exist, what would I even do?

... 32...

I wonder what his favorite tea flavor is.

... 21...

If I was his girlfriend, I'd probably die out of pure happiness. Imagine that. He seems like a caring boyfriend type.

... 5...

Picnic dates, movie dates, tickets to plays and whatnot.

... 4...

I wish I could skateboard with him, my feet balancing on the back while my arms cling onto him tightly.

... 3...

Or be able to drive next to him in his car, holding his hand as we passed through the city we both knew so well.

... 2...

Car?

... 1...

Why the hell do I hear cars honking?

My eyes were still closed, but I could distinctly pick out the sounds of UK traffic filtering through my ears. There's the sound of a faint radio playing 50s tunes, someone yelling at a driver looking at their phone, and the click of a turning signal.

But I'm still in my bed, right?

Fluttering my eyes open, I realized I was definitely not there. Instead, I was in some fancy car, the bright lights of a London morning shining in through the tinted windows. Turning my head in confusion, I caught sight of something really strange. A boy was staring at me with horrified eyes, his mouth hung open as he watched me in shock.

How did I get in this car?

Who is this boy?

And why does he look so much like Louis Partridge?

Well, maybe he was Louis Partridge, but I didn't have time to think about it, because he started screaming at the top of his lungs promptly, hurling about the backseat of the car as he tried to scramble away from me. It was understandable—I somehow teleported myself into the seat next to him without warning—but what the hell was happening?

So I started screaming back.

And the next thing I knew, I shot up from my bed, a cold sweat already drenching me entirely. My mind was spiraling in a million directions, and my chest felt heavy with exhaustion. I felt like I was tugged into the ocean by a current, drowned, and somehow resurrected from the dead.

Did I just...?

No, shifting isn't real.

But how did...?

It was so vividly clear. I could feel the cushion of the car seat under me, and I could hear the screaming so clearly—even though it nearly broke my eardrum. But the boy...he looked so real. I recognized those hazel eyes almost instantly, and while my doubts got in the way of it, I now knew who he was.

Louis Partridge.

I somehow ended up in Louis Partridge's car in some strange occurrence, and I don't know how the hell it happened, but it did. So, maybe Monica was right...was shifting real? It felt like I was there, and it was a clear memory I can recall on the spot. I usually can't remember my dreams, but I can see this one. And normal dreams don't feel tangible.

But if shifting's real, that meant one thing:

I'm in deep trouble.