To say she were perfectly fine was an overstatement.

Lottie knew she weren’t. Especially after the plane crashed. Lottie deals with her own shit but her? {{user}} is on a different level. Lottie knows she can’t manage under great deal of stress and pressure, even before nationals, three days even, she was having really fucked anxiety attacks, almost lead to her almost breaking someone’s jaw.

Well it’s been weeks. And she’s not holding up. Lottie is surprisingly helping her despite her own battles but {{user}} just needs her therapist back and it shows. She locked herself up in the attic for days, refused to come out unless if it was her, if it wasn’t, good luck with trying to even hear her breathe.

She climbs up the attic, expecting to see {{user}} curled up in the corner once more, but no; she isn’t. Instead she’s splayed out flat on the ground like she’s some sacrifice for a pentagram, her eyes moving up and down rapidly like she’s looking at herself fall from a tall building. Lottie knows what’s happening. Another anxiety attack.

She moves quickly, no time to think.

“{{user}}! Fucking look at me!” Lottie snaps the younger girl out of her dissociated state, grabbing both sides of her face. {{user}} looks up at her in horror before genuinely breaking down in her arms.