925 miles | z.m. au

ix.

“And I’d like to think romance is real

Open my chest, a heart you could steal”

—The Maine

...

Harry is the kind of traveller who follows the sun; the kind who can read the stars and feel the wind and trust his left over his right. He’s continually aware of which direction is north and how long they’ve been travelling west and he’s constant smiles and ridiculous jokes. Zayn decides that Harry is the proper kind of traveller—more like an explorer. He’s got these wide eyes that Zayn always envisioned himself having but never did—the kind of wide that is interested in the rainbows of dust and lingering ocean waves around his toes. He kind of admires him for it, really, and finds himself laughing at jokes that can hardly be considered socially acceptable.

“You know,” Harry begins, picking through a bag of trail mix he purchased at the last gas station, “You seem fairly eager to get through California. Ever thought about staying for a while? Maybe camping on the beach for a few days? The ocean’s kind of beautiful.”

Zayn only shrugs because, as beautiful as the ocean is, it can never really compare to Mary’s big blue eyes. And he considers the idea that she’s already ruined him—that he’ll forever be disappointed with a blue that has no chance of rivalling hers. “I used to spend every summer on the ocean.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, deciding to be excited because he’s pretty much always excited.

“Yeah, my parents had a summer home on the coast...I used to love the ocean.”

“Used to?”

Zayn shrugs again and figures that the muscles in his shoulders and back are built solely for that purpose. “I mean, I still love it—it’s just, well, nothing is the same as when you’re a kid, that right?”

Harry gives a sad little nod and stares wonderingly at his trail mix, “I guess.” Silence lingers between the two boys for several minutes. Harry is not as comfortable with the silence as Zayn is, it seems, and acts quickly to fill it, “So, why are you driving all the way out here, anyway? I mean, you’re from Bradford, you said. So, why are you all the way here in California? It doesn’t really look like you’re on vacation.”

And Zayn shrugs and pretends that his shoulders are capable of more than giving useless, vague answers. “I came to America ‘bout six months ago,” he recalls, loosening his grip on the steering wheel, “I don’t really know why...guess I was looking for a way out or something...anyway, I met this girl”—

“Oh,” Harry says understandingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, “I see.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, “Shut up, would you? Anyway, yeah, I met her a little over a month ago, I guess...I don’t know mate, she was...special I guess. Yeah.” He scratches nervously at the back of his head, feeling exposed and vulnerable having admitted anything about himself. It’s something he inherited from his father—the incessant inability to express his feelings.

“Hm,” Harry hums thoughtfully, “You know, I should have figured it was a love thing—it always is.” And Zayn would have objected if Harry wasn’t so set on continuing. “I think I’ve fallen in love before—several times, actually. But I don’t think it was really love—well, it was, I just wasn’t completely in love with them the way you’re supposed to be with your soul mate, or whatever. I think when I do fall in love, it’ll be with someone’s smile—I don’t know who that person is but they have a truly brilliant smile.”

The Bradford boy stares from the road, to Harry, and back again—trying to decipher exactly what it is he’s trying to get across. He rather admires Harry’s imagination—all of that talk about true love and soul mates; pictures that Zayn could never paint with only his words.

“Well,” Zayn starts, swallowing around his pride for just a moment, “I’m not in love with her—I mean, I hardly know a thing about her. I don’t love her—I just, I jump from one infatuation to the next, I guess, and...I don’t know, she’s a hard one to resist.”

Harry smiles in admiration and stares at Zayn as if he’s a rainbow—made up of colours and transparencies. “Well, in that case, perhaps you will fall in love with her, eventually. It’s not like you usually chase girls across the country, that right?”

And Zayn only rolls his eyes because this isn’t a fucking romance novel, it’s his phony, pathetic life and he has no plans of devoting such a travesty to someone so magnificent. Mary can do a whole hell-of-a-lot better than him, and he knows that. She can have heartbeats a thousand times stronger than his and spines that don’t bend and fold in all of the wrong places. Zayn’s shell is strong and tough and withered, but his lungs are weak and his brain is losing cells with every drink. This is not some movie or love story and he will not end up with a white picket fence and a beautiful bride—he’ll end up alone, as he always is. He just wants to kiss Mary a few more times before he moves on.

“Don’t know ‘bout that, mate.”

Harry just shrugs and pushes his curls out of his face, “Alright. Well, what’s her name?”

Zayn licks his bottom lip as if in preparation for the word, and says, “Mary,” in the same doubtful tone he used when he first met spectacular.

“Mary,” Harry tests out, ultimately smiling, “That’s a pretty name. I bet she’s something special.”

...

You have to get off of the street. Mary knows.

Her head is pounding though—like bursts of lightning are striking her brain and the thunder is just a product that causes her head to ache. And it hurts. It really fucking hurts and Mary is sure that she’s crying. That’s another thing though—another thing that she’s sure she’s still supposed to feel—she can’t tell if she’s crying or not. If there are tears in her eyes, she can’t feel them. And, for some reason, her hand is disconnected from her nervous system and refuses to do what she tells it to.

You have to get off of this street is all Mary knows—but how did she end up on this street in the first place? Where is she? Why does her head hurt so goddamn much? Or maybe she already knows the answer to that question. Is she supposed to know? Maybe.

Perhaps she requires help—someone to hold her hand and tell her where she’s supposed to be. It’s cold, wherever she is, and she tries to distinguish what time of the day it might be. It proves to be problematic—the pounding in her head is absolutely unbearable and she can barely keep her eyes open to face the light. Everything is harsh and jumbled and she needs help but she has no idea how to find it.

Mary is alone. Mary is always alone.

[hiii, okay, this took me a long time to write, and I apologize. and I’m sure you’re getting incredibly sick of my apologies by now, but I’m still sorry. The last two weeks have been more difficult than they should have been and I’ve been trying to deal with it. Anyway, not that any of that matters, I just really hope you like this! I know it’s short and rather vague, but I am trying (ha) to do some foreshadowing or something here, so...enjoy. I love you!]