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It's been two weeks since Zayn and I first met. I've seen him nearly every day at the flower shop and it feels so nice to have a friend for once.
Nobody gets me the way that he does.
Nobody makes me laugh as much as he does.
Nobody makes me feel as safe as he does.
I don't think anyone will ever live up to Zayn Malik. He even bought me another poetry book after I had finished the first one.
I haven't seen him a lot at school, but that's okay because he still texts me often. I thought it was a long shot randomly texting him at midnight a couple of weeks ago, but ever since, he has been the one to text me first.
It's now the weekend and I have nothing planned for the day. I'm trying to ignore my parents for as long as possible, but that's naive thinking at this point. I might sneak out of the house for a bit and head to the flower shop since I have nothing better to do.
Then, there's a pounding on my door.
What could my father possibly want at 7:30 in the morning?
My father enters without warning and sees me still bundled up in my comforter.
"Son, be ready in ten minutes to meet your mother and I downstairs," he says sternly. "We have something important to discuss with you today."
I give a swift nod. My father immediately slams the door shut and leaves.
I rub my hands over my face to eliminate my remaining drowsiness. I throw the covers off my legs and head toward my closet to find something to wear. I would take a shower, but my father only gave me ten minutes to meet him downstairs, and I know better than to be late. I throw on a light green Nike sweatshirt and loose jeans. It takes me about five minutes to completely get ready, including my hair, deodorant, and cologne.
I sit back on my bed and scroll through my phone for a couple of minutes before I have to leave the comfort of my bedroom. I debate texting Zayn but ultimately decide not to. I don't want to bother him or appear too clingy, yet it's so relieving to have someone to talk to like a normal person.
When my time to procrastinate finally runs out, I shut my door and head down the steps. I pass one of the maids on my way to the kitchen and greet her with a small smile. I walk under the archway and into the kitchen, where my mother and father sit at the dining room table. They appear to be whispering about something, but when I make myself present, they immediately stop talking.
The dining room table is piled with many different foods, and the cook seems to be cooking more in the kitchen. I already know what this is. They are trying to butter me up with food so they can tell me something I don't want to hear.
That's just peachy.
"Good morning, son." My mother says and gestures to the chair across from her and Father.
