Sasha

I write stories lol MDNI

[sashaasreads]

Hi everyone! I'm Sasha (she/her), and you can find me tiktok with the username sashaasreads. I'm currently writing my first book on Wattpad! If you'd like to make a request, feel free to do so here on Tumblr. Just a heads up, I do have limits and boundaries, so I may not take on every request. I am looking forward to sharing my work with you all! Also MDNI

[send-up-my-heart-to-you-deactiv]

i dont think anything compares to the joy of getting asks on tumblr or getting comments on ao3

its like, wow. human communication thru the internet. except it feels personal. but yknow, in a nice way, not in an invasive way

its like, you CLICKED on MY account and read thru MY posts and cared enough to leave me a personal message. smth so cute abt that

[blurryhowlett]

I really hope I wake up to Logan Howlett under my Christmas tree with nothing but a pretty bow on.

Anyways- merry Christmas guys

[sashaasreads]

Every day I wish for this😭

[sashaasreads]

Shattered Reflections part 3

A/n: Final part, don't worry, lol.

Part 1 part 2

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The name in the journal wasn’t one of the high-profile ones—no diplomats or scientists, no world leaders Hydra had targeted. It was an ordinary name, the kind that could belong to anyone. And that made it worse.

“Parker Klein.”

Bucky muttered the name under his breath as he walked down the street, the journal tucked under his arm. His metal fingers twitched nervously, the coolness of the morning doing little to settle his frayed nerves.

Parker was alive—Bucky had checked. That was rare enough. Most of the names in his book were already gone, casualties of the Winter Soldier’s ruthlessness. But Parker was still here, still living in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of Brooklyn.

Bucky had spent weeks debating whether to come here. He hadn’t decided until this morning, until the weight of sitting in his apartment had become too much to bear.

The address was scrawled in his journal. He stopped in front of a modest brick townhouse with a small garden out front. The house looked well-kept, though the paint on the door was starting to peel. Bucky hesitated on the sidewalk, his heart pounding.

He could still walk away.

But no. That wasn’t the point. If he wanted to make amends, he couldn’t keep running. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and walked up the short set of stairs.

The doorbell felt like a loaded gun under his finger. He pressed it, the chime echoing faintly inside the house.

Footsteps approached. Bucky’s hands clenched and unclenched as the door opened, revealing a man in his sixties. He was tall but stooped, with gray hair and a face weathered by time. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Bucky, but there was no immediate recognition.

“Yes?” the man asked, his voice polite but cautious.

Bucky cleared his throat. He had rehearsed this, but now the words stuck like jagged glass in his throat.

“My name is James Barnes,” he said finally, his voice low. “You don’t know me, but...” He faltered, his resolve slipping.

Parker’s brow furrowed. “Barnes,” he repeated, testing the name. Then his eyes flicked to Bucky’s vibranium arm, and his expression darkened.

“You’re him,” Parker said, the realization hitting like a hammer.

Bucky nodded slowly. He felt exposed, vulnerable under the man’s gaze. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quickly. “I... I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” Parker’s voice rose, his tone sharp. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, the words tumbling out. “I—I know that doesn’t mean much. But I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

Parker stared at him, his jaw tight. “Sorry? Do you think that fixes anything? Do you think I care about your guilt?”

“No,” Bucky said softly. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I know I can’t undo what happened.”

“What happened?” Parker snapped. “You killed my brother. You murdered him like he was nothing. Do you even remember his name?”

Bucky flinched. “Daniel,” he said, the name like a weight in his mouth. “Daniel Klein.”

The words hung between them, heavy and suffocating.

Paker’s face crumpled, his anger giving way to grief. “He was a good man,” he said, his voice breaking. “He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Bucky’s throat tightened. “No, he didn’t,” he said. “I wasn’t in control of myself. Hydra—”

“I don’t care about Hydra,” Parker interrupted, his voice raw. “I care about my brother. And he’s gone because of you.”

Bucky nodded, the guilt twisting in his chest like a knife. He had no defense, no excuses that could erase what he’d done. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth, I’ll carry this for the rest of my life.”

Parker’s hands trembled as he gripped the doorframe. He looked like he wanted to say more, to scream or cry or shove Bucky away. Instead, he just shook his head.

“Why are you here?” he asked finally, his voice hollow.

“To try to make amends,” Bucky said. “I know I can’t bring him back, but... I’m trying to do something good. To make up for what I’ve done.”

Parker laughed bitterly. “Make amends,” he said, the words dripping with scorn. “You think you can make up for all the lives you’ve taken? For my brother?”

“No,” Bucky said, his voice steady. “I don’t. But I have to try.”

Parker stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he stepped back, his hand on the door.

“Don’t come back,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I don’t want to see you again.”

The door closed, leaving Bucky standing alone on the porch. He felt the weight of Parker’s words, the anger and pain radiating from them, and knew he deserved every bit of it.

He turned and walked back down the stairs, his steps heavy. The journal felt like lead in his hand.

Another name. Another failure.

But as he walked away, he realized something: Parker had looked him in the eye. He had heard Bucky’s apology, even if he couldn’t forgive him.

And maybe, just maybe, that was a step forward.

[sashaasreads]

Shattered Reflections part 2

I don't have anything to say here tbh.

Part 1 part 3

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As he left the bathroom, the cracked mirror lingered in his mind like a warning. Pieces. Fragments. A reminder of what he was: not whole, not fixed, but still standing.

The small apartment was as quiet as ever, its walls thin and its furniture sparse. It had been months since he moved here, away from prying eyes and anyone who might recognize him. The chipped paint and creaky floorboards didn’t bother him. In fact, he liked the imperfections. They felt honest.

But tonight, they pressed in on him, amplifying the silence until it became unbearable.

Bucky made his way to the corner of the room, where a battered duffel bag lay slumped against the wall. From inside, he pulled out a leather-bound journal. The cover was worn, the corners frayed, and its pages were filled with neat, careful handwriting.

The list.

He hesitated, fingers tracing the edges of the journal. It was Sam’s idea, technically—“Make amends,” Sam had said. “Start somewhere, even if it’s small.”

The list was his attempt to atone. A catalog of names, events, and places that still haunted him. People he had wronged, lives he had destroyed. Each name felt like a weight, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

He opened the journal to the first page. The name stared back at him, sharp and unforgiving.

He had crossed off a few, but not many. Each confrontation had been harder than the last. Some people forgave him, but most didn’t. He didn’t blame them. How could he?

But tonight, the weight of the unmarked names was suffocating. He slammed the journal shut and tossed it onto the couch, running a hand through his hair.

“Make amends,” he muttered bitterly, pacing the small room. “How do you make amends for this?”

He paused, his vibranium hand clenching into a fist. He could feel the anger bubbling up again—the frustration, the self-loathing, the helplessness. It was always there, simmering beneath the surface.

Without thinking, he lashed out, punching the wall. The plaster cracked beneath his fist, leaving a jagged dent.

The pain in his flesh hand was sharp, grounding him. He exhaled shakily, pulling his hand back to inspect the damage. His knuckles were raw, bleeding slightly, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

He sank to the floor, leaning back against the wall. The journal stared at him from the couch, an accusing presence in the dim light.

A memory surfaced then, unbidden.

He was in Wakanda, standing by a quiet river. The sound of the water had been soothing, a rare reprieve from the chaos in his mind. Shuri had been there, handing him a small wooden carving. It was simple, yet intricately detailed—a panther leaping through the air.

“You are not the person they made you to be,” she had said, her voice firm but kind. “You are the person you choose to become.”

At the time, he had brushed it off as empty words. But now, sitting in his broken apartment, he couldn’t stop thinking about them.

The person you choose to become.

What if he didn’t know how to choose? What if he made the wrong choice?

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. The tears threatened to return, but he swallowed them down.

“You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore,” he whispered to himself. “You’re not.”

But who was he?

The question lingered as the hours ticked by. He stayed on the floor, lost in his thoughts, until the first rays of dawn began to creep through the window.

The cracked mirror, the dent in the wall, the journal—they were all still there, reminders of the chaos inside him.

But the light of morning felt...different. Softer. Warmer.

He pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from hours of sitting. Slowly, he crossed the room and picked up the journal.

Flipping through the pages, he paused on a name he hadn’t looked at in weeks. It wasn’t an easy one—it would hurt, just like all the others. But something deep inside him, fragile but persistent, urged him to try.

He grabbed his jacket and stepped out into the cool morning air. The streets were quiet, the city still waking up.

He didn’t know if he would ever truly atone for what he’d done. He didn’t know if he could forgive himself. But maybe, just maybe, he could take one small step forward.

And for now, that was enough.

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Part 3 coming soon.

[sashaasreads]

Shattered Reflections

A/n: A little angsty story about Bucky Barnes. This is not an x reader.

Part 2 part 3

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The mirror stared back at him, cracked down the center.

Bucky Barnes sat on the floor of his bathroom, knees drawn up, his breathing shallow. His vibranium hand hung loosely at his side, the faint hum of its mechanics the only sound in the silent room. The apartment was dark; the only light came from the flickering bulb above the mirror.

He hadn’t meant to break it. It had been a moment of weakness, of anger, of frustration—a punch thrown at his own reflection.

The crack split his face in two, dividing the man he wanted to be from the shadow he had been.

“You’re not real,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The image didn’t answer, but it mocked him all the same. Half of his face was James Buchanan Barnes—the boy from Brooklyn who dreamed of something better. The other half was the Winter Soldier—the assassin who left nothing but blood and ash in his wake.

He stared at the distorted version of himself, memories clawing their way to the surface. Hydra’s commands, sharp and unrelenting. His hands, covered in blood. The screams.

“You’re not real,” he repeated, louder this time, as if the words could banish the ghosts.

But he knew better. The Winter Soldier was real. And no amount of words could erase what he had done.

Bucky’s left hand twitched—a phantom sensation from a limb that was long gone. He remembered losing it, the explosion tearing through his body as he fell from the train. He remembered waking up to agony and confusion, Zola’s cold voice instructing Hydra’s scientists to “prepare the asset.”

Asset. That was all he had been to them. A weapon. A tool. A machine.

He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. The cold tiles pressed against his back, grounding him. But the memories still came, unbidden and relentless. He saw himself walking through smoke-filled corridors, Hydra agents scrambling to make way for him. He felt the weight of the rifle in his hands, the mechanical precision of his movements as he carried out their orders.

It was always the same: faces blurred by time but emotions sharp as ever. Fear. Anguish. And his own detachment, a passenger in his body while the Winter Soldier pulled the trigger.

Sometimes he wondered if they had truly erased his soul, or if they had just buried it so deep it could never find its way back to the surface.

His vibranium arm glinted in the faint light, a cruel replacement for what was stolen from him. It was better than the crude monstrosity Hydra had given him, but it didn’t feel like his. Nothing about his body felt like his.

The present was no less cruel. The world didn’t know what to do with him—half the people treated him as a war hero, the other half a war criminal. He didn’t belong anywhere.

Steve was gone. The one person who had truly believed in him, who had fought to bring him back, had left. Bucky understood why, but the ache of being alone again was a weight he couldn’t shake.

Shuri had tried to help him, too. She had given him peace, even hope, in Wakanda. But Wakanda wasn’t his home. He didn’t think he had a home anymore. Brooklyn was just a memory, a place that existed in the 1940s, frozen like a photograph in his mind.

And now he was here, in a rundown apartment, staring at his fractured reflection and wondering if he even deserved to keep breathing.

Bucky’s fingers curled into fists, flesh and metal trembling. He thought about punching the mirror again, shattering it completely. Maybe it would feel good, a brief catharsis in the destruction.

Instead, he unclenched his hands and pressed his metal palm against the cracked glass. The vibrations hummed faintly as he traced the jagged line splitting his face.

“You’ll never be whole,” he muttered to himself.

The silence that followed was suffocating. He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in the empty bathroom.

He thought about Sam. Sam had been trying, hadn’t he? Trying to help him, trying to reach him. But every conversation with Sam felt like an interrogation, like being forced to confront truths he wasn’t ready for.

“You’ve got to start letting go,” Sam had told him once. “Forgive yourself.”

But how could he?

He looked back at the mirror. “You don’t deserve forgiveness,” he said aloud, his voice breaking.

The tears came then, unbidden and hot, sliding down his cheeks as he stared at the stranger in the mirror.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. The tears eventually stopped, leaving him feeling drained and raw.

The world outside was quiet, the city muffled by the late hour. Slowly, Bucky pushed himself up from the floor, gripping the edge of the sink for support. He wiped his face with a trembling hand, avoiding his reflection this time.

He thought about Shuri’s words, about Sam’s stubborn faith in him. About Steve’s unwavering belief that he was more than what Hydra had made him.

Maybe they were wrong. Maybe he would never be more than the broken pieces of James Barnes and the Winter Soldier.

But maybe—just maybe—he could try to be something else.

He didn’t know what that looked like yet. He didn’t know if he had the strength to rebuild himself. But the flicker of hope, faint and fragile, was there.

As he left the bathroom...

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Part 2 is coming very soon.

[sashaasreads]

Dangerous Liaisons

Lloyd Hansen x Fem reader

A/n: Sorry, I haven't posted in a minute. I've been a little distracted by life lol but I have a 3-part story coming out. Hopefully, sometime this weekend.

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Lloyd Hansen, the unhinged yet charming man, isn’t exactly known for romantic attachments. But if anyone could capture his attention, it would be someone equally unpredictable like you.

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The crisp night air clung to the Mediterranean coastline, stars shimmering above like scattered diamonds. Lloyd Hansen lounged on the terrace of his private villa, a glass of bourbon in hand and a mischievous glint in his icy blue eyes. He was waiting for you.

It wasn’t often that Lloyd let anyone into his inner circle, but you weren’t just anyone. You had a knack for chaos that matched his own. Where he thrived on calculated violence and power plays, you brought an unpredictability that intrigued—and sometimes frustrated—him.

"You're late," Lloyd said, his tone teasing but sharp as you stepped through the open terrace doors.

You smirked, tossing your leather jacket onto a nearby chair. "Fashionably late, Hansen. Or did you miss me that much?"

He chuckled, rising from his seat to close the distance between you. His tailored shirt clung to his frame, a reminder of his vanity and obsession with control. "Miss you? Hardly. I just don’t like waiting."

You tilted your head, your defiance shining through. "Guess I’ll have to make it worth your while."

Before he could reply, a soft buzz interrupted the moment. Lloyd pulled out his phone, his expression shifting to irritation as he read the message. "Looks like our little evening is going to be cut short," he muttered.

"Trouble?" you asked, leaning against the railing.

"Nothing I can’t handle," Lloyd replied, but his tone suggested otherwise. He hesitated, then added, "Feel like tagging along? You’ve got a talent for... stirring things up."

You grinned. "Always. What’s the plan?"

Minutes later, the two of you were speeding through winding coastal roads in one of Lloyd's prized cars. He filled you in on the situation: a leak within his network, someone selling information to a rival agency. "We’ll deal with it quickly," he promised, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

The night took a darker turn as you arrived at an opulent villa perched on the cliffs. Inside, Lloyd’s charm melted away, replaced by the ruthlessness you knew all too well. He interrogated the suspect with surgical precision, his voice smooth yet laced with menace.

But as always, you couldn’t resist adding your own flair. "Lloyd, darling, you’re making this too easy," you said, leaning in close to the trembling informant. "What if we let them sweat a little more? People talk when they’re scared."

Lloyd shot you an amused look, a mixture of admiration and exasperation. "You really enjoy this, don’t you?"

You shrugged, your smile wicked. "Only when you’re around."

By the end of the night, the traitor was dealt with, the information secured, and Lloyd’s network preserved. As the two of you drove back to his villa, the tension eased, replaced by the thrill of victory.

"Admit it," you teased. "You couldn’t have done it without me."

Lloyd smirked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "You’re insufferable, y/n. But I’ll keep you around—for now."

And so it went, the dangerous dance between you and Lloyd Hansen. A relationship built on chaos, power, and an undeniable spark that neither of you could resist.

[nondelphic]

the five stages of grief: writer's edition

denial: "this draft is amazing. no need for edits. it’s practically perfect as is." you’re so confident that you close the document for the day, smiling like you’ve just discovered the next great american novel (or swedish, or british, whatever). plot hole? who is she?

anger: "why did i ever think this was good? this is garbage. i am garbage. my characters are flat, my dialogue is cringe, and my prose sounds like a robot swallowed a thesaurus and threw up on the page." rage-quit the doc and go aggressively scroll pinterest for "writing inspiration" that you will never use.

bargaining: "if i fix this one scene, the whole thing will click into place. i just need to write one more subplot, maybe five more chapters, a quick rewrite of the entire ending, and then it'll be fine. totally manageable." queue up 17 youtube videos on "how to fix your plot" that you play in the background while staring at your ceiling.

depression: "i will never finish this book. it’s doomed. i’m doomed. why do i even write? who let me have ideas?!" lay dramatically on your bed, considering taking up knitting or rock collecting instead. cry a little over how your characters deserve a better writer.

acceptance: "this is the best i can do right now, and that’s okay. i’ll take a break, come back with fresh eyes, and remember why i love this stupid, broken story." suddenly, your MC whispers something brilliant, and you're like wait… maybe i'm a genius after all.

and the cycle begins again. writing is a joy.

[nondelphic]

one day, i’ll be a successful writer with a chaotic tumblr that nobody suspects is actually me, and i’ll just lurk in the tags to see people’s reactions to my books

[sashaasreads]

Love n' London

Harry Styles x Fem Reader

A/N Apologies for the delay! I’ve been busy, but I’m finally getting to upload again. Still no smut—I’m working on finding the right approach to write it without it feeling awkward. Thanks for your patience!

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Y/n grew up dreaming of living in London. Ever since she was a child, the city had fascinated her its vibrant art scene, the music, the historic architecture, and the countless little cafes. So, after graduating from art school, she packed her things and moved to the city, full of ambition and excitement.

She found a job as a curator’s assistant in a small gallery in Soho. It was the perfect job, really she spent her days surrounded by paintings and sculptures, getting to know local artists, and learning how to put together exhibitions. It wasn’t glamorous, but Lena loved it.

One grey October afternoon, y/n was at her usual spot in the gallery. She had just finished adjusting a painting, making sure it was perfectly aligned, when the bell over the door chimed, signaling a visitor. She glanced up to see a figure in the doorway, his frame silhouetted against the dim light outside. He was tall, with a tousled head of curls peeking out from under a beanie, a coat draped over his shoulders.

As he stepped inside, Y/n’s heart skipped a beat. The face beneath those curls was unmistakable Harry Styles, the singer she had admired for years. She had seen him in interviews, photos, and music videos, but nothing compared to seeing him in person.

Harry caught her looking and gave a small, shy smile. She blushed, quickly looking away, pretending to adjust her clipboard. But Harry approached her, offering a charming, friendly "Hello."

Y/n stammered out a greeting, her cheeks flushed as she tried to act calm. "Can I help you with something?"

“Actually,” he said with a little laugh, “I’m here to see some art, but I’d love a guide if you’re available.”

It turned out Harry was in town with a few days off between tour stops and had been wandering through London, exploring its art scene. Y/n walked him through the gallery, explaining each piece. She was passionate about her work, and he seemed genuinely interested, asking her thoughtful questions. They talked about art, music, and their favorite places in London.

After their tour, Harry surprised her by inviting her to a late lunch at a small café nearby. Still in shock, she accepted, and they spent the afternoon laughing and talking as though they’d known each other for years. Y/n found herself opening up to him in a way she rarely did, talking about her dreams, her childhood, and the strange mix of fear and excitement she felt about living in London.

Over the next few weeks, they continued to meet. Harry would drop by the gallery whenever he was free, sometimes bringing coffee or flowers. They would spend hours talking, sharing stories, and discovering new corners of the city together. Y/n soon realized that Harry, for all his fame and glamour, was remarkably down to earth. He seemed genuinely fascinated by her, by her art, by her life. And she, in turn, found herself falling deeper each day.

One crisp evening in November, after a quiet dinner in a little Italian restaurant tucked away in a side street, they found themselves walking along the Thames. The lights of London sparkled on the water, casting soft, dancing reflections. They walked in comfortable silence, fingers occasionally brushing against each other’s.

Harry stopped, turning to face her. His green eyes held a softness that took her breath away.

“y/n ,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This might sound crazy, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Y/n felt her heart pounding. She wanted to say something, but words seemed too small to capture what she felt. So she simply reached out, taking his hand in hers, and they stood there, the world fading away around them.

As the weeks turned into months, Harry’s tours took him to different cities, but he and y/n stayed in touch, talking late into the night, sharing stories, and sending each other songs and sketches. The distance was hard, but their bond only seemed to grow stronger with time.

Whenever he was back in London, they would pick up right where they left off. They explored every hidden gem in the city together, from art galleries and vintage bookstores to secret gardens and rooftop views. Harry introduced her to his world, taking her backstage at his concerts, letting her experience the thrill and energy of his performances. y/n introduced him to hers, taking him to underground art shows and showing him her latest work.

Their love story was a quiet, steady thing, like the pulse of the city itself. They were each other’s inspiration. Y/n's paintings became infused with new colors and emotions, and Harry’s songs took on a deeper, more soulful tone. She was his muse, and he was hers.

One rainy evening, a few years after they’d first met, Harry surprised her with a visit to the gallery. He was holding an umbrella and looked every bit as dashing as the day she’d first seen him. She was setting up a new exhibit and hadn’t expected him to come. But there he was, standing there with that familiar smile, his eyes shining.

“Harry!” She ran over, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her close.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said, his voice warm and full of excitement. He led her outside and down the street, and before she knew it, they were at a small, empty theater. Inside, a grand piano stood on the dimly lit stage.

He sat down at the piano, motioning for her to sit beside him. Then, he began to play. It was a song she’d never heard before, gentle, heartfelt, each note weaving a story of love, devotion, and all the golden moments they’d shared.

When he finished, he looked at her, his face softened with vulnerability. “I wrote this for you, y/n. You’ve changed my life in ways I can’t put into words.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she took his hand, squeezing it. They didn’t need to say anything; the silence between them spoke louder than words ever could.

That night, in that quiet, empty theater, with only the faint glow of city lights around them, they knew they had found something rare, something lasting. The kind of love that was more than a moment it was a lifetime, etched in songs and sketches, laughter and quiet glances, memories, and dreams.

In each other, they had found a piece of themselves they never knew was missing a love that was as deep as the city they both called home.

[lulamadison]

[orchidame]

[sashaasreads]

Nerdrry x Fem reader

My first little story. There's no smut in this story for now. LOL, but if this becomes a series, I might include some in the future. I hope you enjoy the story! Feel free to send me your thoughts or questions!

Harry's not used to attention.

He’s always been a bit of a loner. While he has a few friends, sports never interested him, and as a result, he’s never quite fit in with the popular crowd. In contrast, Y/n has always been the center of attention. With her striking beauty, affluent parents, and status as a cheerleader, she naturally attracts admiration from everyone around her.

Everything changed one day during their senior year when they were paired together for an important project. As the week progressed, they grew closer and discovered a genuine fondness for each other. Even after the project concluded, they continued to spend time together, becoming practically inseparable.

However, Y/n's popular friends didn’t take kindly to their budding friendship. They frequently cornered Harry in her absence, taunting and threatening him. When Y/n discovered what was happening, she was furious—who did they think they were, bullying him for simply being himself? Enraged, she confronted them, leading to a heated argument that ended with her in tears as she confided in Harry.

He felt terrible, wishing she didn’t have to endure this because of him. Determined to make things right, he tried to fit in with the popular crowd, even though it made him uncomfortable. He stopped hanging out with his own friends, all in an effort to belong.

Eventually, Y/n sat him down and had a heartfelt conversation, reassuring him that she liked him for who he truly was, not for any facade. She urged him to embrace his authentic self.

Before long, Y/n and Harry began dating, spending all their time together. Embracing their true selves, they no longer felt the need to hide who they were. Despite her friends’ disapproval of their relationship, Y/n quickly realized that their opinions didn’t matter as long as she was happy—and she was genuinely, profoundly happy.