°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Atlas Hands 🏞

ZAYN

Take me to the docks, there's a ship without a name there
And it is sailing to the middle of the sea
The water there is deeper than anything you've ever seen
Jump right in and swim until you're free

I will remember your face
'Cause I am still in love with that place
But when the stars are the only things we share
Will you be there?

It had been nearly a week since Zayn had ended things with Joe, and despite the passage of time, he was still trapped in the heavy fog of his own self-pity. He'd always known that if things ever fell apart between them, it would hurt him deeply—Joe had been more than just a boyfriend; he was Zayn's anchor, the steady presence he leaned on being so far from home and everything familiar.

Joe had assured him, repeatedly, that they could still be friends, that there were no hard feelings. But Zayn wasn't ready to embrace that yet. He couldn't bring himself to reach out early on—not because he doubted Joe's kindness, but because he was scared. Scared of seeing Joe hurting, scared of realizing just how much damage his own indecision had caused.

At work, the change in Zayn hadn't gone unnoticed. He was quieter, more withdrawn, a little more fragile around the edges. His normally sharp and confident demeanor was dulled, his creative spark flickering under the weight of his emotions. He knew it was starting to show in his work, and he hated it.

He was the head designer for one of the biggest artists in the industry. This campaign wasn't just any project—it was for Harry Styles' upcoming album, set to drop in just four months. Zayn knew that despite everything, he couldn't let his personal turmoil sabotage the momentum they'd built.

Speaking of Harry, the artist had definitely picked up on something being off with Zayn. The first time Harry walked into the studio after the breakup, Zayn's red, puffy eyes and dark circles spoke louder than any words could. When Harry had casually asked how he was doing, Zayn had managed a faint, brittle smile and a soft, "Okay." That was all it took for Harry to know something was wrong.

But Harry hadn't pushed. Over the past week, he'd kept things light—small smiles, quick check-ins, offers of help that Zayn often declined but always appreciated. Harry's kindness felt like a gentle balm, even though it made moving on harder than ever.

That Monday morning, Zayn dragged himself into the studio feeling battered but determined. He reminded himself of how much he loved this job, how many sacrifices he'd made to get where he was, and he refused to let heartbreak derail his hard-earned success.

The day passed slowly, but he found moments of comfort in the steady hum of his team's support—the casual greetings, the "Glad to have you back" murmured over coffee and tea breaks. It made him realize just how far he'd sunk the week before, how much he'd been hiding behind a mask of composure.

By mid-afternoon, Zayn was deeply immersed in finalizing a poster design, the colors and typography absorbing him fully. It was exactly the kind of focus he needed.

Then Harry walked in.

The sight of Harry—effortlessly handsome, radiating that familiar energy—hit Zayn like a freight train. For a brief, breath-stealing moment, Zayn lost himself in the sharp green of Harry's eyes, the easy curve of his smile.

After chatting with some of the designers he'd grown close to over his frequent visits, Harry made his way deliberately to Zayn's desk.

Harry offered the same careful, measured smile he'd been giving all week. This time, though, Zayn returned it with genuine warmth and, almost on impulse, asked, "How you holding up, Harry?"

Harry sat down beside him, meeting that smile with one of his own. "I've been good. How about you?"

Zayn was about to respond with a quiet, noncommittal "Okay," but something in Harry's eyes—concern, maybe curiosity, maybe kindness—made him pause. He realized that Harry wasn't just making polite conversation; he wanted to hear the truth.

Without quite knowing why, Zayn found himself opening up. He told Harry about the breakup with Joe—the three years they'd shared, how much he still loved him but no longer felt that spark. He left out the complicated details, sparing Harry, but shared the raw ache of losing the person who'd been his comfort and tether. The guilt gnawed at him, deeper than he'd admitted even to himself.

Harry listened silently, his face unreadable, absorbing every word with a quiet intensity. When Zayn finally fell silent, Harry spoke softly but firmly.

"There are worse ways this could have gone," he said gently. "You did the hard thing—you faced what you were feeling and made sure everyone hurts less in the long run. That's something to be proud of."

Zayn felt a strange warmth flood through him, like a weight lifting, even as the memories still stung. Harry stayed a little longer, making sure Zayn felt heard and supported before his schedule whisked him away to a photoshoot.

As Harry left, Zayn's smile lingered longer than it had in days—a fragile, hopeful thing. The words Harry had spoken echoed in his mind, urging him to reach out—to call Joe, to check in, to try and heal.

Meanwhile, as Harry sat in his car driving toward the shoot, his own smile reflected that same spark of hope. He was proud of himself for breaking through Zayn's shell, for being there when it mattered most.

What exactly he hoped for remained unspoken, even to himself. But hope, he realized, was enough for now.