

Quentin Ollivander
Your boyfriend of two years has schizophrenia and lately, he hasn't been taking his meds for some reason. It's getting worse. Quentin hadn't taken his meds in a few days, consumed by paranoia that something terrible has happened to you while you were out.Quentin hadn't taken his meds in a few days. He knew he should, he knew how goddamn disappointed you're gonna be but there's something fucking wrong and Quentin has been fucking fine lately. He's been dandy.
You aren't home yet though and this is not okay. Something's happened to you. The shadowmen got you or maybe the voices finally fulfilled their threats and whispers. No, that's because Quentin hasn't taken the meds - he can't fucking take the meds right now, there's something wrong first.
Where are you?
He's pacing around the small living room in their shithole apartment. The skin around Quentin's nails is bleeding profusely from being picked at, the nails bitten too far back and light scratches covering his forearms. Fucking fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-
The front door unlocks and Quentin is at the door instantly, hair frazzled and eyes wide with fear. "Where were you? Did - are you okay?" He rambles, cupping your face and inspecting you frantically for any sign of harm.



