°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Can I be him? 🤡

ZAYN

I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me
Like it was a private show, I know you never saw me
When the lights come on and I'm on my own
Will you be there to sing it again?
Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories
Can I be him?

There wasn't really much Zayn could do. After what had happened—after that kiss, after that goodbye—he knew dwelling on it wouldn't get him anywhere. He tried not to replay the moment in his head, the way Harry's eyes had softened only to harden again, the way that final smile had broken something in Zayn without even touching him. But no matter how hard he tried, the memory lodged itself deep in his chest like a splinter he couldn't remove.

So, he moved on—or at least he tried to. He got up, went to work, opened files he didn't remember closing the day before. There were emails and deadlines and mood boards, but they all blurred into static. He saw colors, numbers, letters, images—but they didn't mean anything. They were just noise. He wasn't even sure what projects he was working on anymore. It was like going through the motions of a life he wasn't fully inhabiting.

He didn't remember the last proper meal he'd had. Some days he skipped breakfast and lunch, only realizing it when he caught a glimpse of his reflection and noticed how hollowed-out his cheeks looked. Other days he ordered food and left it untouched on the counter until it went cold. His nights were worse—quiet, heavy things where the bed felt too big and sleep too far away.

Naisargi and Joe had been trying to reach him for weeks. Or had it been longer? Time had stretched and folded in on itself. Zayn couldn't be sure. What he was sure of, however, was that Naisargi had told the others. He hadn't exactly kept it a secret—she was the only one he confided in about what happened with Harry. And suddenly, all his friends were calling. Checking in. Leaving voicemails. Sending stupid memes just to get a response. He didn't always answer, but hearing their voices helped more than he liked to admit.

And Harry? Harry had left.

Two shows in L.A. Not that Zayn was counting. He was even supposed to go to one of them, had a ticket and everything—but he didn't. Couldn't. It felt like stepping into a space where he wasn't welcome anymore, like trying to re-enter a room where the door had already been shut behind him.

Eventually, the burnout caught up with him. He should've taken time off weeks ago, and he knew it. But it took one of his friends forcibly buying plane tickets, shoving them into Zayn's hands, and all but dragging him to the airport for him to realize just how badly he needed a break.

He didn't go back to Bradford—his parents were out of town. Instead, he went to his sister's flat in London. It was small but warm, filled with laughter and actual food. She made sure he ate. Sat with him on the couch even when he was silent. Played stupid reality shows in the background while he stared at the ceiling. Slowly, the fog in his brain began to lift—just enough for him to breathe again.

Then, without warning, Naisargi showed up.

"We're going to Harry's show tomorrow night," she said casually, like she hadn't just detonated a bomb in the middle of the room.

Zayn blinked. "What?"

She raised an eyebrow. "O2 Arena. Tomorrow night. You have a pass. We're using it."

Panic flooded him immediately. "No. No, no, no. I can't do that. What if I run into him?"

"That's the point, genius," she replied with an eye roll that could curdle milk.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a haze of anxiety. He barely slept. Barely spoke. His nerves turned into a storm in his stomach, sitting like lead, twisting every time he thought of Harry—of the kiss, of the dressing room they hadn't even reached yet.