Waking up, the first thing I notice is the throbbing pain near my right eye. Everything was blurry and I couldn't tell what was happening or where I was, almost like a dream. Nothing seemed to be real, like I'm imagining it all. My mind was disoriented and I could barely tell if I was even breathing. I felt far away when I was very much laying comfortably in a bed.
A bed.
Whose bed was this? Blinking several times, I slowly sit up. The bed I lie in has dark red covers and the walls are tan with a desk in the corner, a dresser and night stand. The room was perfectly clean with nothing laying around, not even a pair of underwear or socks. There wasn't much to give it away, but I could tell it was a guys bedroom. It smelled of sweat, cologne and soap, especially the pillow.
The only question was; what guys bed am I sleeping in?
I took off the covers and I shiver instantly. The room is cold. Looking at my feet, I realized I am not in my own clothes. I wear a grey Harley Davison crew neck instead of my crop top and black baggy sweats. Looking around for my clothes, but they aren't in the room. I groan, wondering where they could possibly be. I quickly start to wonder why I can't find my clothes, but mainly on who changed me and why.
My shoes are no where to be seen either so I guess they're downstairs. Looking around, I can't help but be curious of who's room I'm in.
I walk over to the dresser and open it. The top drawer is filled with socks and boxers and I quickly close it, my cheeks burning up. The next with shirts and flannels and the last, a variety of pants.
I move to the closet and it has several shelves. There's a small section in the corner where jackets hang. A variety of shoes are lined along the bottom and I have to admit, this guy has good taste in shoes. The shelves are filled with art supplies from spray paint to oil pastels to pencils. There are two large suit cases stacked on the floor with a small cardboard box.
I close the closet doors, moving on to the desk in the corner with nothing on it. I open the top drawers and there lies varies pieces of paper and a sketch book. I take it out and flip through the pages, catching glimpses of the owners drawings. They're very good, much better than I could ever draw. I admire a drawing of batman and see a signature at the bottom.
"Zayn"
Who's Zayn? I've never heard or met anyone named Zayn. Why would a guy I don't know let me stay in his room and wear his clothes? Or I think these are his clothes.
I put away the sketch book and am about to head downstairs when I realize I don't have my phone. Looking around I spot it on the night stand and pocket it.
On the back of the door is a mirror and my hair looks like a rats nest. In a quick motion, I put my hair into a pony tail. I'm about to look away when I realize something. Taking a closer look, my eye is pretty swollen. It's purple and puffy. I slightly remember the events of last night, but only bits and parts. One of them is Zacks fist connecting with my face. That explains the pain.
I open the door quietly and close it just as softly. I look around the hallway and there's only four other doors, all closed. The walls remain bear, not helping me find out who's house this is either. I hear a muffled voice with music playing softly two doors down from the bedroom I was in.
I walk to it and place my ear against the door. I can hear someone singing on the other side to whatever is being played on the radio. It's hard to tell due to the running faucet, causing him to sound muffled. I know it is a guy from the deepness of the voice.
Only a few minutes after I pressed my ear to the door, the faucet turns off and I can here the song perfectly. His voice also sounds vaguely familiar, nagging at the back of my head.
