اللْهُمَّ إِنَّكَ عَفُوٌّ تُحِبُّ الْعَفْوَ فَاعْفُعَنِّي

how i avoid spoilers in TikTok when i haven't played the hsr 3.2 main story quest yet (save me)

trynottospoiltheentirequestwhenitjustreleasedchallenge 💔

HE SAID IT, HE SAID IT ! 🥹🥹🥹🥹

قَالَ: قَرِيباً أَجَلِي، بَعِيداً أَمَلِي ، سَيِّئاً عَمَلِي

My death is near, my hopes are far, and my deeds are bad.

WEOEOEOEOEIFJEISHDISHSJ

thank you my lovey sunday, used it to pull castorice's sig lc without going into hard pity 🫶🫶🫶🫰🫰🫰

toro stickers ~*

02; the withering

Pairing: Yandere!Botanist x Reader Description: You thought you were just pulling away, reclaiming your space—but to Elijah, your silence was a symptom, your distance a sickness. And now, as the world withers around you, he offers the only cure: himself. Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Abuse | Psychological Manipulation | Gaslighting | Isolation | Implied Stalking | Codependency | Unhealthy Relationship | Coercion Note/s: Enjoy reading! Let me know what you think about this one. Oh. Also, I'll be posting the next chapters of sanctum on my ko-fi in advance while updating the holy week special on a daily basis.

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The first time you meet Elijah, your hands are buried in dirt and your hair sticks to your forehead under the heat of an early summer sun. The community garden is smaller than you imagined—two raised beds, a few vertical trellises, and a compost bin that smells like fermented greens. You’re there because you wanted something wholesome. Something grounding. Something real.

He doesn’t say much at first.

You glance over, catching him crouched by the snap peas, methodically checking their growth. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing pale forearms speckled with soil. A pair of glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and his hair is slightly too long, curling at the nape. You can’t help staring when he gently touches one of the vines, his thumb brushing along its fragile tendrils like he’s afraid to bruise it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and smooth, like soil soaked in rain.

“You’re digging too shallow. The roots will struggle.”

You blink, startled. “Oh. Sorry—I haven’t really done this before.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft but scrutinizing. “No need to apologize. You’re just new.”

He shifts closer and takes the trowel from your hand, demonstrating the motion with slow, deliberate precision. “Think of the plant like a child. It won’t thrive unless it feels safe. You have to give it enough depth to breathe, but not so deep that it drowns.”

You’re a little embarrassed at how seriously he takes it, but something about the way he talks—the reverence, the quiet care—it draws you in.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps his distance. But he always watches. Always helps when you’re struggling. The first time he smiles at something you say, you feel like you’ve coaxed a sunflower to bloom in winter.

“Elijah’s like a Victorian ghost,” your friend Lila jokes one evening when you meet for coffee. “Are you sure he’s real?”

“He’s… interesting,” you admit. “I think he just takes time to warm up.”

Nathan, your other friend, raises a brow. “He’s hot in that tortured poet way. Just don’t let him convince you that sadness is sexy.”

“He’s not sad,” you say, a little more defensively than intended. “He’s thoughtful. He talks about plants like they’re people.”

Lila sips her drink. “Okay, but does he talk to people like they’re plants?”

You laugh with them then. But a part of you remembers the way he’d touched your wrist last weekend, gently turning your hand over to examine a burn you hadn’t even realized you’d gotten from the kettle.

“You need tending,” he’d murmured. “You bloom better under the right care.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Your visits to the garden become regular. Every Saturday morning, sometimes Sunday afternoons. Elijah’s always there before you, already working. You bring him iced tea once. He accepts it with a quiet nod, then takes exactly one sip before going back to trimming a stubborn vine.

It’s not romantic. Not yet. But there’s a rhythm to it. You talk about your week. He listens without judgment. Sometimes he says strange things—asks you what kind of soil you think your heart would grow best in. Wonders aloud if your sadness feels more like drought or frost.

But he’s never cruel. Never impatient.

Until you stop showing up.

It isn’t intentional. Work gets busy. You’re offered a freelance project and you start seeing someone new—briefly. Elijah texts you once: Missed you today. Then again, two days later: The lilies drooped without you.

You don’t respond.

Lila invites you to a birthday dinner, and Nathan brings his newest situationship. You sip wine and listen to them complain about dating apps and flaky coworkers and overpriced rent.

“So, have you seen your ghost gardener lately?” Nathan teases. “Or did he finally return to the soil?”

You hesitate, twirling your glass. “He texted a couple times, but I’ve been swamped.”

Lila leans in. “You ghosted him, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to.” You laugh. “I just got caught up in things.”

“You should probably clear the air,” she says. “Guys like that? The quiet ones? They internalize everything. He’ll think it’s his fault.”

You glance down at your phone. No new messages.

Later that night, as you unlock your apartment door, you pause.

There’s a package on your welcome mat. Wrapped in plain brown paper and twine. Inside: your basil plant. The one Elijah helped you grow. Its leaves are shriveled. The soil is cracked and dry.

There’s no note. Just the plant. Dead.

You bring it inside anyway. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But the next morning, your heater breaks.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

It starts slow.

Lila stops responding to your texts. Nathan leaves your messages on read. You think they’re just busy—until your name is quietly removed from the group chat. Your landlord claims your rent was late, even though you paid early. Your emails to HR vanish into the void. Your favorite café closes down without notice.

You tell yourself it’s all coincidence.

But when you return to the garden one cold, gray Sunday, Elijah is there—waiting.

“You look paler,” he says, setting down a watering can. “Thinner.”

“I’ve been stressed.”

He nods, like that explains everything. “I noticed the apartment building next to yours has mold in the foundation. Black mold. Very dangerous.”

You freeze. “How do you know that?”

“I keep up with things.”

He hands you a cup of tea—your favorite blend. You take it without thinking, hands trembling slightly.

“I didn’t mean to ghost you,” you say. “I just needed space.”

He watches you over the rim of his glasses. “Space is a myth. Even the stars are drawn to gravity.”

“Elijah—”

He touches your wrist. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop your words.

“I let you go,” he murmurs. “I let you wilt.”

“You’re not responsible for me.”

He tilts his head. “Then why are you here?”

You don’t have an answer.

You sip the tea. It’s warm. Soothing.

But the aftertaste is bitter.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You start seeing him more.

Because when he’s around, things work. Your electricity stays on. Your fridge hums. The walls don’t creak at night. The outside world feels far away—muted, distant. You stop trying to reach Lila. Your calls never connect.

One night, Elijah brings soup. You haven’t eaten all day.

He sets the bowl on the counter, then steps closer. “You look tired.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

He frowns, brushing a thumb beneath your eye. “Insomnia is a symptom. Lack of care. Dehydration. Depletion.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just hands you the spoon.

Later, when you try to call Nathan, your phone screen glitches. The number says disconnected.

You turn to Elijah, who’s watching from the doorway, calm and unreadable.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whisper.

He steps forward, places his palm over your chest like he’s testing the pulse of a root system. “You’re not dying. You’re just malnourished.”

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

“No,” he says, with that same quiet reverence from the garden. “You’re just being… repotted.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The worst part isn’t that he keeps you.

It’s that you let him.

Because when he holds you, you’re warm. When he murmurs to you in the dark, you forget what loneliness feels like. He tells you that you’re doing better. That you’re stabilizing. That your eyes are brighter now, and your spirit more rooted.

He brings you a mirror one morning, tilts it toward you.

“See?” he says softly. “No more drooping. No more decay.”

You stare at your reflection. Skin paler than you remember. Cheeks hollow. Lips dry. But your eyes—yes. They shine. Not with life, but with devotion.

He touches your chin. “You needed pruning. That’s all. Just a little guidance.”

“I… don’t remember who I was before.”

“You were starving,” he says. “And no one noticed but me.”

You start to cry.

He pulls you into his arms.

“There, there,” he whispers. “Don’t cry. You’ll waste water.”

You clutch him tightly, because you’re afraid.

Afraid that without his hands, you’ll collapse.

Afraid that he’s right.

That all along, you were just a flower planted in the wrong garden.

And now… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

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We’re so good at reminding others to pray, lower the gaze, cover up, fear Allah but we forget to check our own hearts and actions.

Knowledge is useless if it doesn’t change you.

Pretty words are empty if they’re not proven by actions.

Let the Qur’an change you first,

Before you try to change the world.

“Do you preach righteousness and fail to practice it yourselves, although you read the Scripture? Do you not understand?” (Qur’an 2:44)

May Allah make us practice what we preach.

“O you who believe, why do you say what you do not do? It is most hateful to Allah that you say what you do not do." ( Qur’an 61:2-3)

Ya Allah, save me from falling into those sins which I remind others not to do.

Don’t let me be a reminder for others while I forget myself.

Protect me from preaching what I fail to practice.

"yo'kong mabuhay sa isang mundong walang tayo. tatlong bilyon ikaw lamang ang asking gusto, pasensya na kung ako'y di para sa'yo."

✨ ere - juan carlos

"ligaya, pagibig ko'y ikaw."

✨ ikaw - yeng constantino

"sa panaginip na lang pala kita maisasayaw."

✨ sa huling el bimbo - eraserheads

"anong gagawin kung wala ka? dito ka nalang habang buhay."

✨ bawat piyesa - munimumi

"ang ngiti mo'y parang isang tala, na matagal na ang kinang...

...ngunit ngayon lang nakita...

kung kelan, wala na."

✨ sa'yo - munimumi

"at kahit mawala ka pa, hinding-hindi mawawala.. ang damdamin ko'y sa'yong sa'yo."

✨ sa'yo - munimuni

lyrics that have me on a chokehold, nothing beats filipino opm.

ahhh, i gotta thank him for making me yearn so hard—reminding me that my heart still continues to beat despite the bittersweet feeling of past disappointments. (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠)