Escapade » z.m

63. I Become A Ride To A Seven Year Old

Zayn was in very high spirits on the Saturday afternoon, giving a simple nod to Stuart in greeting he steered his car in through the campus gates.

He shut the car door, light, and shoved the keys inside his pants.

Zayn was wearing a white cashmere sweater today, which was rare for him. It was expensive, hard to look after, and was only bought after Fionn had insisted relentlessly, his mouth pursed in a thin line, eyes wide and pleading, urging Zayn to try it once, Zayn please, take my word for it, I'm telling you, if you don't like it I'll zip it immediately, and that "People are going to swoon, Zayn, it's not even funny."

It was specially chilly, Zayn reckoned it was only fair he wore this today. It was soft on his skin, a little too much perhaps, he wanted to wear it at all times. The University was draped in the blanket of fog, the air dewy but biting. It was crisp and harsh on his cheeks, almost numbing. It left Ravenford bittersweet, longing for a snowfall yet content with the chill in the air, it made him hide his hands in the pocket of his pants. The metal of the keychain felt cold to touch.

He hadn't talked to many people in the stretch of these two weeks. Sure, there had been instances where he had been bombarded with questions from his batch mates; curious, skittish gazes meeting his perplexed ones in the hallway. He found that the curious eyes followed him more so they could know what happened between him and Mitchell, and less because they wanted a healthy and not at all intrusive discussion about a book.

He didn't understand why everyone knew about their fight, and he also didn't understand why everyone was so overjoyed with that twisted piece of information.

Apart from these, there hadn't been my interactions that he wanted cherish. He had talked to Gemma, once or twice, but it had been to scold her for her choice of words.

"Don't write the exam!" He had imitated her, voice seething, although he didn't feel the rage at all. Even after being on the other side of the phone, he had easily heard the guilty sigh that escaped her, "Couldn't you have said 'Every is going to write your exam' and save me the three hours of excruciating wait?"

"I had to tell you so much more, there was no time, and I didn't know where I should start from." She had defended. "Besides, I'm not doing an English major, I think I can have the liberty of choosing the wrong words."

"How many times are you going to throw that card?"

"Some, then some more."

The call had come to an end with Zayn tightly clutching the railing of the balcony, bent, laughing, listening to Every and Gemma bicker on the other side of the phone. "I will have to stay awake tonight if I don't go back to studying." He said between those laughs.

Gemma had shifted her attention to him quickly, "Right, shit, I forgot you have like a million majors to study for." She had said, "Every is saying hi, and that never trust anything I say, but she's exaggerating, of course, I'm nothing but trustworthy."

"Right." He had smiled, "I'll see you then."

It had been a while since he saw her, however. The exam dates hardly coincided.

Zayn had had some conversations with Lucas too. But it was mostly about forcing Lucas to accompany him to the Mess, because his appetite had grown extensively since some days. Every talked to him in hushed voices, pretending that they weren't really friends lest he might have to replace the writer he had for his exams.

All things considered, it didn't fulfill what he had grown accustomed to. Which was a breathless, incessant, spoken journal about how the day was spent, or how it will be spent. Every had disappeared each time he tried to approach her after the exam. And the time he had left with himself, he spent that burying his nose in the book, from which his glasses always slid down when he dozed off.