Niall Centric One-Shots

Sonder

A.N.: Posting this is really fucking hard because of the recent news. I've decided not to write Zayn in anymore fanfictions unless there's a Ziall prompt (or if I get a sincere apology from Zayn, but I highly doubt that.). I'm severely disappointed how Zayn dropped us and his four best friends for a fucking sweaty burger.

I don't care if someone tries to argue about him wanting to reconstruct his career his way, I'm not taking that shit. I'm not taking it because he planned all of this, and it just seems like he was just in it for the fame to me, now. He dropped us, all of his fans, and his four brothers for almost five years for a fucking douche who autotuned his voice and used it against the fandom, band members and fans.

And I am pissed.

Fuck Zaughty.

__ _

Sometimes, Zayn will sit in congregated areas where he can see every pinpoint of a person. The shade of their hair, the colour of their eyes, the ambition or lack of in their motives, the shape of their nose, their wide smiles, their broken frowns, every flaw or perfection, everything.

Zayn doesn't like the term 'people watching.' He doesn't sit there to judge others by their appearance or barely coherent sentences. He just sits there and watches.

Watches for something he doesn't know.

He considers that maybe, just maybe, he enjoys seeing the thousands and thousands of people walking across the same dirty floor, or seeing two complete strangers smile at each other who will later on smile at another stranger. Perhaps, it's almost unfathomable to Zayn at how many people are there.

Zayn considers that the people in the room make him feel less important, less needed.

It doesn't worry him that he thinks this; it doesn't hollow his being and replace flesh and organs with empty dejection. Instead, it satisfies him. Almost like he's watching all the people, people who have flaws, worries, friends wrapped around them, a dead parent maybe, a lost sibling, a dream, all surround him and overflow his senses with reality.

It's like watching infinity ignore its existence. Chance walking past a happening. Fate being predicted.

Zayn doesn't know when this habit started, but it's almost like being gorged with the fact that everyone is everyone.

Sure, there's the single detail that humans are utterly diverse, but humans are also the same. The same fears, the same ability to love, the same laughter, the same smile, the same tears. Of course, they're all represented on different levels of meaning or truth.

It makes Zayn feel complete.

__ _

Everyone dies.

Zayn thinks this when the elderly couple passes him as he sits in the park.

It's Spring, and children and couples are welcoming the weather and allergies.

The elderly couple are clinging to each other, withered skin and knobby fingers attached to one another. The man's knuckles threatening to push through the thin layer of skin.

The woman's hair is the quality of straw, the man's a bucket of ashes on his head. The woman is smiling and waving at the children, her breath airy and faltering. The old man holds her hand carefully in his, both hands fragile and wrinkled. He watches her like a petal of hope drifting away in the Spring breeze.

The love between the two fizzes and bubbles in Zayn's chest.

The old man goes out of his way to pick a cherry blossom down from a drooping branch to place in her hair, and the tight bubbles in Zayn's chest burst.