Midnight Memories

3

Harry couldn't sleep. Again.

It was the same as every other night since they'd hit the road for this leg of the tour—lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on him. The laughter from the others had long since faded as the bus rolled quietly down the empty highway, but Harry was wide awake, thoughts spinning.

Zayn was always on his mind. What's going on with him? Why won't he just talk to me?

Harry tossed and turned, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Zayn's distant expression, the way he had pulled away when they'd talked after rehearsal. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing Zayn—not just as a bandmate, but as something more. Something he didn't even fully understand yet.

With a frustrated sigh, Harry pushed the covers off and got up, slipping out of his bunk and quietly making his way toward the back of the bus. He needed air, or at least a moment away from his own thoughts.

As he passed through the narrow hallway, he noticed Zayn sitting alone again, hunched over, earphones in, sketching in his notebook. Harry stopped in his tracks, heart pounding. He knew he shouldn't disturb him, but the pull toward Zayn was too strong, too impossible to ignore.

Taking a deep breath, Harry slid into the seat across from Zayn. Zayn didn't look up right away, his pencil moving slowly over the page. Harry watched the lines forming beneath Zayn's hand—another intricate design, another piece of Zayn's mind that he kept hidden from everyone else.

After a long moment, Zayn finally glanced up, pulling one earphone out. "Can't sleep either?"

Harry shook his head, offering a weak smile. "Nah. Thought I'd see what you were up to."

Zayn nodded, but didn't say anything more, his focus drifting back to his drawing. Harry studied him, the way his brow furrowed as he worked, the way his lips parted slightly in concentration. It was one of the few times Harry saw Zayn at peace—when he was creating something, lost in his own world.

"I miss this," Harry said softly, not entirely sure why the words slipped out.

Zayn's hand paused, his pencil hovering over the page. "Miss what?"

"This," Harry gestured between them, his voice quieter now. "Just... talking. Being close."

Zayn didn't respond right away. He set his pencil down, closing the notebook with a soft sigh. "It's not the same anymore, Harry. We're not the same."

Harry felt his chest tighten. "Why does it have to be different? We're still us. We're still—"

"Are we?" Zayn interrupted, his voice edged with something bitter. He finally looked at Harry, really looked at him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Harry saw something raw in Zayn's eyes. "Because I don't feel like me anymore. Not in this band, not in this life."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. He had known Zayn was struggling, but hearing it out loud made it real in a way that shook him to his core. "Zayn, we can fix this. We can figure it out. You don't have to—"

"Don't," Zayn cut him off, shaking his head. "Don't say it's that easy, because it's not. You don't know what it's like for me."

Harry felt the words hit like a punch. "So tell me," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what's going on. You're shutting me out, Zayn, and I don't know how to help you if you won't let me in."

Zayn rubbed his hands over his face, leaning back in the seat, frustration clear in every movement. "You can't help me, Harry. You can't fix me."

"I'm not trying to fix you," Harry said, more forcefully this time. "I just want you to talk to me. To let me in."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence between them. Zayn's expression softened, and for a second, it looked like he might break, might finally let Harry see the part of him he kept hidden. But instead, he stood up abruptly, pacing to the back of the bus, his back to Harry.

"You don't get it," Zayn muttered, his voice low. "I'm already half out the door, Harry. I'm barely holding on."

Harry's heart clenched. "What do you mean?"

Zayn turned, his dark eyes filled with something Harry couldn't name—fear, sadness, maybe even regret. "I don't know if I can do this anymore. Any of it."

Harry stood, his chest tight, walking toward him slowly. "So what, you're just going to leave? Leave all of us?"

Zayn's gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw clenched. "Maybe."

The word hung between them like a bomb waiting to go off.

Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry. "And what about us?" Harry's voice cracked, and he wasn't sure if he was talking about the band or something else—something unspoken between them.

Zayn turned to face him, his eyes dark and tired. "There is no 'us,' Harry. Not like that."

Harry's breath hitched, the words cutting through him sharper than he expected. He felt frozen in place, unsure of what to say. He didn't even know what he wanted Zayn to say—just not that.

Harry stood there, frozen, his heart pounding as he watched Zayn retreat into the shadows, slipping further away.

And for the first time, Harry felt truly helpless.