stars shine brightest in room 93 (halren/halsren/lausey?)

ii

tune: lost-coldplay

I remember when I used to hate coming back home.

When I lived in a shabby little apartment down near Dolores and the last thing I wanted to do was to be confined to those four drab walls.

I remember when I didn't live with Zayn and the only time I had enjoyed the company of my lumpy mattress was when he was in it. When I would love those long drives back home because they were always filled with loud music and laughter. When I would open my front door and put my bag down and just wish I had something else to do that day.

When there was nothing to miss back home. When it was just an empty little shack and I had nothing to do.

Now, coming back home is nothing but a blessing. And my daily car ride home is quiet and hopefully short because my feet are killing me, my mind is cloudy, and I have no patience to turn this steering wheel any further. And maybe now, I wish I had a little bit more time to have nothing to do.

Thinking like this—although it seems to happen a lot—isn't the best for me. I don't like to dwell. I don't want to dwell. But I do it anyway. And driving this car with all this fog blocking my vision just spurs my mind on. I should probably talk about it; but who would understand?

I guess, I'll just keep it to myself. I like having things for me. At least, that's what I've always told myself.

"Jesus, finally." I breathe quietly to myself once I'm able to pull into my condo's parking garage.

As I get out of my car my legs and arms are submerged with pure, Northern California chill and I knew I should've worn a fucking jacket.

I run towards the elevator on the other side of the garage, proceeding to bounce up and down impatiently as I wait for it to open.

When it does eventually open—after a little too long if you ask me—I step in and inhale the scent of fresh paint and I gag. It's a little too strong to be trapped in here like this and I feel claustrophobic as hell. But when don't I feel claustrophobic? I feel claustrophobic in my own mind.

I'm greeted with the bright luxurious lights of the condos foyer after I'm freed from the confinements of the half renovated elevator—which yet again, took way too fucking long—and I sigh with contentment.

All I have to do now is walk straight and open my door. Just fifteen feet Lauren. You got this.

After my fifteen foot journey of high-heeled agony, I'm finally able to slide my key in the door of my condo. Thank, Jesus.

"MAMI!" I hear my daughter call as soon as I crack open the door. Before I can react she runs and jumps up into my arms. I bend down and scoop her up before she can fall and hold her to my chest.

I sort of just hold her and listen to her heartbeat for a little while before pulling back and observing the wild, paint covered mess her hair is.

"Where's your daddy?"

"CAR! Hiiii!" Lana yells, and I squint my eyes at her before quickly reverting my attention to the various soaps, sponges and buckets collected by the counter island.

So, he'll wash his car before he'll wash his daughter. Wow.

"Well, why don't you let me give you a bath and then we can play a game?" I suggest, hoisting Lana up on my hip.

She squeals excitedly not a second later so I take that as a yes and carry her over to the bathroom.

After filling the tub with water, I set her in and ask her about her day as I suds up her hair. She gives the usual "GOOD!" and goes on to ramble about what crazy things her father had done while I was gone.