Disguise♔ z.m

Forty one

As the car drives down the streets, I begin to consider reasons why Liam hasn't called me yet.

I'm fine, I tell myself. I don't need him.

If he really missed me, he'd call. Period.

I shift on the backseat, and groan out of pure frustration. Trying to focus on the radio, I hear a woman brag about the date her boyfriend had planned.

Stupid love.

I am becoming paranoid and I can't fathom why it is getting the best of me. Perhaps I care too much. Perhaps I believe this relationship is actually something he values or sets as an important aspect of his life. I really look forward to working out what we have, and with the likes of his behavior, I wonder if it can ever prolong.

The longer it takes him to call, the worse my imagination gets. I can picture him making love to Elle, or to any other woman he comes across. My skin claws with jealousy and all I want to do is smack him right across his face and pound my fist on his chest to point out my irritation and anxiousness.

If life was to link me to Zayn, would he ever treat me that way? Would he respect what we have? Would he drop by flowers at my doorstep and leave an anonymous note saying it's from my greatest admirer which will make me smile like a school girl?

I know, that's bullshit. It only happens in stories or movies. I've watched too many anyway, thinking it could actually happen to me.

Unfortunately, I've never received flowers from Liam, and though I've felt content whenever we were together, it was never enough. He says he loves me, but is that true? Do you forget the people you love? Most importantly, do you hurt the people you love?

I sigh and rub my forehead, knowing I am making this too much of a great deal when it is just a bump on the road, as Liam always said.

The flashy pink sign with the name of the pub sparkles under the night sky as the car pulls over at the corner and I hand the grumpy, old man the requested amount of money.

I silently thank him and climb out of the vehicle, my shoulder length hair blowing to the side, exposing my bare shoulder. Closing the door after myself, my feet pad over the concrete as my hand nearly comes in contact with the cold, metallic door handle.

Pulling the door back, I immediately scent the aroma of cigarette and alcohol filling the room that possessed a drastic contrast comparing to Amigos.

I scrunch my nose when the aroma becomes bitter, only in matter of minutes brushed by jolly people rushing by me. They push me to the side but I don't complain once I see their smiles appear due to their reunion with their friends that had apparently booked the farthest table at the front row.

I flatten my lips as I begin to study the place, wondering why they had made so many barriers in order to get to the field filled with round tables of different height, accompanied by chairs and stools of choice. My finger brushes over the stools' leather seats as I walk by them, their print feeling soft against my digits. The dark lights were not a discomfort since there was enough coming from the miniature stage set in the middle of the room. A drummer, guitarist and back vocalist, stood at the shadow of the stage as the main singer, probably a guest here, sang with his slurry and raspy voice.

He sways one of his hands from side to the side as the other firms its posture on the middle piece of the microphone, his weary eyes settling on the group of friends I had noticed when I walked in. The acoustic song continues to play as I walk in corners until I finally find a comfortable spot, somewhere not too far and not too close to the stage. I settle down and keep my bag close to my thighs as I look around and read the signs, one of them having Karaoke night every Saturday.