Cigarettes, Mixtapes and a Song // z.j.m

Try pressing play on the lyrics video by the side, and listen to it while you read. It held more words than needed to hear.

He lit a cigarette; his fourth for the day.

It was a lot, considering it was only nine in the morning. But Zayn needed it. Even though she hated him doing it, he needed the little stick of nicotine.

Usually, he only needed one; just to let out a little steam. She used to object, saying he couldn't see clearly how it was killing his lungs. And before, he had argued with her about it. But now he didn't see the point in fighting anymore.

Fighting was ridiculous now, to his eyes. So is drinking all those bottles of alcohols every weekend. Or the cigarettes he smoked, so many times he lost count. Fighting drove her out the door.

Thinking about this made him curse under his breath, and he ripped the cigarette from his mouth. He stared at it with burning anger, and then threw it to the floor, stomping it with his shoe.

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, he fisted his hands and leaned back against the couch he was sitting on. The couch she used to sit on, too, when she'd cuddle up against him every movie night.

Her.

He missed her so much. More than he thought was possible.

He remembered everything.

Her last fight with him, when she couldn't take anymore of his drinking or reckless smoking and packed up her luggage. She was out of the house that they had lived in for a year faster than he could take a breath in.

Her flawless smile.

Her soft hair she used to let him idly run through.

Her three types of crying: boy crying, crying when she was frustrated or sad, and crying when she wanted something.

All in all, it's just...her. No one could ever replace her.

It baffles him how he felt so strongly, a burning emotion. And it baffles him more how he could have so much of that in him when he thought he was incapable of love. Until she showed him what he was missing out on.

And then she left him, with all these unfinished endings and a hole in his heart.

By noon, he was standing in front of their bedroom door.

His hands grasped a box, and his lips were slightly trembling. All day, he'd gathered courage to do this. To box up all of her stuff left. All day, he'd felt sick to his stomach. Giving up what's left of her belongings felt like letting her go, somehow.

He'd spent two weeks hell-bent on forgetting reality - now he had to face it head-on. It's been enough moping around.

He entered their bedroom - or used to be theirs, before he escaped to the guest room and she stayed in this room.

The room was a mess. Bed sheets were tangled, books were thrown on the floor and clothes lay among the broken shards of glass. She must've had tantrums. Why didn't I calm her down? He pounded his forehead. This is all my fault.

Overwhelmed, he dropped to his knees. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at a box, shoved underneath his bed. Curious, he dragged it out. And his jaw dropped.

The box held dozens of mix tapes, neatly stacked. Each was labeled carefully with Post-it notes. He reached for the first tape. '50th date celebratory tape.' Then the next. 'For rainy days...' And then the next. 'Moving in!'