Say It Like You Mean It [Play Dead OneShot Challenge]

[A/N: A spinoff sequel from the One Direction fanfiction, 'Play Dead'.]

~*~*

Well, I made it.

Almost that is. After many months of distressing hard work, sleepless nights and days, cramming on different assignments and film projects (never cram, just don't), spending most of my allowance for camera film and batteries, and let's not forget, presenting all those persevering monthly reports to my stern professors and headmaster (whew, I can finally blow a big breath of relief)- I made it. Although it's sad that I'll be leaving my university life full of blisses and blows, I was about to take a big step in my future- the future. It was finally going to unravel as if it were the awaited finale in a book franchise. It did feel like one though, the book franchise was my life. And it was about to begin in the end.

How deep did that sound? Zayn's skills must be leaning on me...

But right now, it wasn't happening yet. It was still the present, wherein I was still a university student, who was stressing about what could possibly be my concept for my upcoming exhibit. It was going to be opened in public viewing for a whole week. But as grand and amazing as it sounds, it was deadly.

The number of views and praises and attention it would get had to be matched with the number of praises my professors would give me. It was my final output.

"God, why does everything have to be related to photography? 'Choose your favourite animal and depict how it can be pertained to Photography.'" I mocked my Prof. Pason's croaky voice. It always annoyed me how tense and rough it sounded. I actually thought on the first time we had classes with him that he had a bad sore throat, but as the months went by, it was severely hard trying not to prescribe him throat lozenges. "It sounds like we're applying for Miss Universe, except it's about being the photographer and explaining the model." Adrienne mimicked.

We were both in my room, trying to get out of our 'photography block' (sort of like writer's block except it's photography- obviously) whilst waiting for our pizza delivery. (Adrienne wasn't planning to stay over for dinner but she overheard Charity ordering 2 boxes of pepperoni and pineapple, which instantly changed her mind. Dammit, Charity.) So far we were out of luck and we'd just been talking- obsessing- about Rihanna's new hot cover at Rolling Stones. And god, I would do anything to look as good as her. Why couldn't my exhibit just be an exclusive black-and-white retro shrine dedicated to her? "By the way," Adrienne shifted her position, now lying on her stomach. "Are the boys coming?" She asked.

I was actually asking the same question lately. The boys were busy with rehearsals for their upcoming tour, let alone promoting their new single. If I'm in luck, I'd get a call from Zayn- with the boys frivolously shouting their casual 'hellos' and 'how are yous'- and we'd chat for a good solid of 10 minutes, but it honestly wasn't enough. Most of the conversations would either contain stories of the fun, yet tiring rehearsals they've had for the past week; new dance routines; and how bloody drained they were or we'd talk about my stories of the fun, yet tiring classes I just had; exhausting film projects; people asking how they were; how I was; and how bloody tired I was. There was no in-between or flipping random topics. It was no coffee shop or catch up or likely, a heart-to-heart session. It felt more like calling somebody to confirm their 10 o'clock dentist appointment.

"Zayn said they'd try to come," I answered. "How adorable, they'd try." Hearing her sarcastically snarl at 'try' puzzled me. "What?" I glared at her. It's like she was referencing to some tip or whatever so from The Desperate Housewives. "Nothing, nothing really." More like, "I've got something to say; I'd like to share them with you because I'm a great friend." "I mean, he could've said, 'That sounds perfect! We'll be there, don't fret, babe!' I mean, isn't Zayn the type of boyfriend who'd just drop everything and be there for you? But try is fine. It's a maybe. 'Oh cool, maybe we'll get there; maybe we won't. It sort of plays tricks with your mind. You think it's a good one, but really, you just have to wait and see," she bluntly told me, her message haunting me. Adrienne always made it seem like she was my mother who couldn't wait to tell me so. (But that was Charity's job.)