Paranoia (Zayn Malik) (editing)

Chapter 6: Bad Movies

LUNA

In the two weeks I have been here, I have learnt a few things.

I have learnt that gyms are much more enjoyable when they're empty. The home gym next to the garage is small, but it's the only place here that makes sense to me here. No ques for equipment, no creepy men staring at my arse and no wiping up the sweat of strangers off equipment. The lock on the door separating the garage and the gym is large, but I try not to pay attention to it. I've figured it's better to play along with the rules right now.

I have learnt that Zayn is a creature of habit. Every morning, in the early hours before the sun rises, he goes for a run. He probably expects that I'm sleeping, but I watch from the window of my bedroom that looks over the front gate. He returns exactly two hours later, without fail, every time. Not that I have a plan to, as of yet, but if I was to attempt to escape this seems like the time window to it. He then disappears downstairs to his floor and stays there for the remainder of the day. I suspect it's soundproofed, I can never hear anything, no matter how much I press my ear to the floor. Every other day, he remerges in the evening to use the gym. He never spends more than an hour and forty-five minutes in there. I make myself food, I always leave him leftovers. He doesn't take them. I'm not sure what he eats, but I'm theorising he has a kitchen downstairs. I've also learnt that he avoids me. At first, it was an inclination, from the way he scurries out of rooms when I enter, avoids eye contact. So, I decided to investigate. The kitchen backs onto the stairs that lead to his floor, if I hear him coming up, I loudly close a cabinet, highlighting I'm in the kitchen, he always retreats downstairs. He wasn't lying when he said he wasn't personable, though I'm choosing to not take it personally.

Mostly, I have learnt that I am not good at doing nothing.

The living room is uncomfortably neat, like the rest of the house. I hesitate over the sofa for far too long before deciding to sit down, disrupting the plumped-up cushions. I turn on the television, but I realise I don't spend much time watching anything and don't know what to even look for and end up turning it back off. I haven't spent much of my life doing nothing, and as much as I have wished for it in the past, I'm finding it's not as easy as it seems. I fidget, my mind wanders, I try to find something to do and ultimately conclude I am too fucked up to enjoy doing anything purely for myself.

I stand and walk to the dark oak bookcase that stretches to the ceiling. I don't have much time to read, but I remember liking it when I was younger, of course, they were mostly picture books. This collection is much more mature, books stacked according to colour, alphabet and genre, little handwritten tags labelling which section is which, 'fiction, mythology', 'fiction, murder mystery' 'Non-fiction, mid-century history' and I try to imagine Zayn spending hours organising all of this, but I don't know enough about him to know whether that's the kind of thing he would do.

The double doors creak as they open, and I look over my shoulder to see Zayn poke his head in. He sees me too, and for a moment I think he's going to withdraw, pretend he was never there, but when we lock eyes, it becomes too late for that. He clears his throat as he enters, awkwardly slipping in and closing the door behind him.

"What are you up to?" He asks, but I'm not sure he cares.

I point to the bookcase, shrugging "Perusing."

He shifts on the spot uncomfortably.

"Do you read much?" He steps closer, looking up at his collection.

I wrinkle my nose and shake my head "You do, though, clearly."

"Yeah." He nods, eyes darting to the door.

"There isn't a gun to your head, you know, you can leave." I turn away from him, looking back to the books.

He sighs "Luna."