925 miles | z.m. au

iv.

“And you heard I was trouble

But your name is a wave washing over me

No games just a slave to you totally”

—Mikky Ekko

“No, it’s like this,” Mary says quietly, repositioning Zayn’s tan fingers into something she deems acceptable. “There you go.”

Zayn looks at his hand in quiet fascination, trying to understand what exactly the position and repositioning of his fingers—which is more or less pressing his index and thumb together— means, because for some reason he’s being taught sign language and he’s not entirely sure why. He’s been mimicking the pretty girl this entire time, but she insists that he doesn’t follow through with enough enthusiasm. “Hm,” he hums, “And...?”

Mary smiles at him, and he’s positive that he’ll never get used to how genuine that smile is or the single dimple that appears on her left cheek. “And that means bird,” she finishes, fittingly tracing over the bird tattoo that she’s come to adore. And Zayn allows her to smooth her fingers over it and kiss it all she likes because it fascinates her, and he rather loves being the cause of that look in her eyes.

“How’d you learn sign language—or why I guess?” Zayn wonders aloud.

“My grandma taught me,” Mary answers, keeping her blue eyes focused on the raven-haired boy’s hand, “She was getting old and sick...her hearing was getting bad, really bad, actually. She was never the type to accept help from anyone though, you know?”

And Zayn only nods, because this is the first time Mary has said a single word about her past, and he’s all ears and wide brown eyes.

“Anyway,” she continues, “She didn’t like the hearing aids and she didn’t like asking people to repeat themselves, so she taught herself sign language...and then she taught it to me so that we could talk. Like a secret language or something—well, it wasn’t really secret at all, actually, but it felt like it when I was a kid.” Mary smiles and finally looks up at Zayn, “She was my best friend. She was...amazing and funny and independent...I don’t know, I wish I was more like her.”

“Perhaps you’re more alike than you think,” the raven haired boy offers, capturing her hand in his and entwining their fingers.

But Mary only shrugs and shakes her head, “I don’t know. She was strong and wise...and I’ll never be either...there’s not enough time in the world.” A heavy silence falls over the two of them, despite the fact that they have the entire world surrounding them and every one of its million sounds and decibels. It doesn’t really matter how many birds sing and crickets creak though, because if Mary’s quiet, Zayn’s world is quiet, and he’s still wondering why that is.

“She used to tell me this story,” she begins again, smiling fondly, “It was one of those typical grandparent stories—when I was a kid I had to walk miles and miles on my bare feet just to get to school—that kind of thing.” Her mouth forms an appropriate half-smile that is worrisome and heartwarming at the same time.

“Anyway, as the story goes, my grandma—who is also named Mary—once fell in love with this boy. He was some runaway with a worn out leather jacket and a nice smile—kind of like you, Zayn Malik,” and she laughs like it’s a joke but they both know it’s not. “But the way she described him was beautiful, kind of like a sunset or a constellation. She loved him, but he wasn’t finished running, so of course he didn’t stick around. He ran and ran and my grandma chased him across the country,” she laughs again, “She was fucking crazy and I love it. She followed him 925 miles until he finally gave in to her...and they were happy for a long time. They never got married and I don’t even know his name, but he was special to her...and I guess that’s why he’s special to me...or the story is, anyway.”