[COMPLETED]
❝Of all the races I've started, loving him is the one I never want to finish.❞
In this re-imagination of my most popular story, Arielle Hawthorne is an illegal street racer, just like Zayn Malik. Zayn's egotistical, flirty, and a major p...
"He has never believed in love at first sight. That we are able to give our hearts away upon one view or that after just one glance, we are in love. But he believes that the second he saw her eyes, he loved them. And the moment he saw her smile, he loved it. And the instant he heard her laugh, he fell in love with the sound. He has never believed in love at first sight, but he believes that after one glance in her direction, he belonged to her completely."
— a.a.i [paraphrased]
A/N:
important few little notes in the end a/n, make sure you check that out! otherwise—
make your guess of what you think the plot of this chapter will be based on the title!
and enjoy! X
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Z A Y N
In the middle of the night, I hear some noises and it startles me awake. I'm able to make out some thumping, as well as a voice—it almost sounds as if the person is whimpering.
I rub at my eyes, doing my best to rub sleep from them and focus.
Tossing the comforter off, I suddenly hear a haunted scream and I immediately wake, knowing it has to be Arielle. Nobody else is on this side of the house. I run to her as fast as my legs will carry me, finding her thrashing in bed.
Without giving it any thought, I scurry onto the bed and shake one of her shoulders gently to wake her. It surprises her and she sits up with a gasp. When her eyes meet mine and she sees me kneeling beside her with a concerned expression, she instantly breaks out into tears.
I cradle her to my body, feeling her tears as they wet my bare chest. "It's alright, I'm here. You're okay," I soothe as my throat tightens. It pains me to see her like this, more than I could ever express.
"I—I dreamt—" She tries to explain it to me, but she's so wracked with sobs that the words won't leave her mouth. Her whole body shakes and I simply hold her, rubbing my hand up and down her spine to comfort her. With her head still pressed to my chest, she informs me, "I dreamt that—that you died, Zayn." She sniffles, "You were choking on blood and—and I—I couldn't save you. Just like that night."
Hearing that is the equivalent of someone viciously cutting my heart out of my chest and stuffing it through a meat grinder or plopping it into a blender and pressing the highest speed.
