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He wakes up but keeps his eyes closed. The alarm from his phone is playing some obnoxious tune that he never bothered to change, and he knows it's seven in the morning. For a moment, and only a moment, he imagines the warmth of a body curled along the length of his back, radiating the promise of a sunny day or at least one without rain.
But the phone rings minutes after the alarm has long stopped chirping, and his eyes pry themselves open. He turns, his back touching the chill of an empty space beside him. After all this time, he still makes the bed with two pillows, even though he knows that's asking for the impossible to happen. Because the dead remain dead. And so does the happiness in his heart.
He picks up on the fourth ring, right before it would have sent the caller to voice mail. It's his manager wondering if he can come in today and re-record a few snippets of his next album. There's some low grumble of agreement on his end, and it's followed by a quiet click from the receiver.
Seven in the morning is early for him, especially for this sort of business, but ever since Liam passed away, Zayn has had to learn to wake up on his own. There's no longer someone else to do it for him, to remind him that there are deadlines to be met, people to please, someone to come home to.
The coffee, too, has never tasted quite the same. At times, it's almost sludgy, sometimes too bitter, or altogether ruined. And today, just when he thinks he's got it down, the pot tastes like some sort of caffeinated tar, brewed from the pits of Hell, and a pile of perfectly good coffee grounds end up in the trash.
So, maybe a month isn't enough time to get his shit together. But he keeps wondering when it will be. Two months, perhaps? Six? A year? Never? All of them sound too far yet too near. None of them sound comforting. All setting a date really does is provide him with a confirmation that he's widowed from the love of his life.
He doesn't question the last statement much. It would be insulting to Liam's memory if he didn't think of their love as something special like a rare, flawless gem.
He can't question it further because it's now half past and he's barely eaten breakfast - oh yeah, Liam used to take care of that too - and he has to leave before traffic can overtake the freeway.
On the way to the studio, he wonders if it would have hurt less had they not met so early in their lives. After all, they say young love is fragile. Then, he wonders how much it would hurt had they just broken up instead because at the very least, even if the split were less than amiable, he could still hate someone very much alive.
But what can one do when they lose someone who was very much alive when they were in love? It hurts more than ending a relationship because life ended it for him. It hurts more because it takes away all of the possibilities of a life they could have shared, were about to share, and drowns his mind with "What ifs" and questions about unfinished plans. Worst of all, it makes him feel utterly powerless, as if everything he does is up to some greater force to decide whether or not it will go awry.
At the very least, his album is moving forward without any trouble. The single he released is steadily climbing the charts, and all he has to do is polish the rest. That much he can do.
Correction: hopes he can do.
He arrives at the studio and is greeted by Louis with a tight hug. His hair is still sleek and brown and his eyes sharply blue, but something about the air around him signifies an erosion of sorts, like the years are wearing away at him. Zayn thinks back to the Louis he met as a teenager and the Louis he's meeting now who's closer than ever to thirty. His eyes, like Zayn's, are flagged with a hint of budding crinkles, and they almost look sullen, trodden upon, worn out.
But Zayn says nothing as he hugs him back. Louis is still rambunctious and energetic and, most importantly, alive. When he isn't playing football and wooing the crowds with his charm and ability to score goals, he writes songs. And lately, he's been around the music industry more and more, as if preparing to say goodbye to one life and hello to another. He drops Zayn off at the appropriate floor and heads off to his own business, and Zayn steps in and shakes hands with the people managing the recording booth.
After the record company's satisfied, he promptly leaves with brisk goodbyes and decides to buy some groceries. He still hasn't managed to learn his way around the kitchen, and only yesterday did he figure out how easy it is to screw up instant food. So, he breathes in relief when Louis jogs out after him and offers to take him to lunch, just the two of them. An offer which he immediately grows apprehensive of.
Throughout the entire ride, he wonders what they're going to talk about. He never used to. It used to be - he now hates that phrase, used to be - fluid and natural between all of them. It used to be the five of them, and now it's the four of them. He wonders if Liam's name is going to be brought up or mentioned in some way or form, and it dawns on him that just about every moment Louis had with Zayn, Louis also had with Liam, so it's technically impossible that Liam wouldn't be a conversational topic.
He almost decides to unbuckle his seat belt and roll out of the car into oncoming traffic because that would hurt exponentially less.
But instead, all Louis says on the way over is, "I think it's time I retired."
He looks over at Zayn for some sort of answer to the implicit question, "Should I?" and all Zayn can do is noncommittally shrug. In a brutal way, it reminds him that by giving an answer, he would be making a decision for Louis, much like he had at the hospital when he had to let go of Liam. Which is why recently, he did only as he was told and not much more. Making decisions took on a new severity, and he finds himself too paralyzed with indecision for his liking. But if a decade of enduring friendship means anything, he knows he's obligated to answer as honestly as he can.
"Only if you're ready. Don't fade out. Burn out," is what he decides to say.
Louis takes this into serious consideration while Zayn wonders if it were appropriate to paraphrase Kurt Cobain's suicide note. Maybe it is, but Louis still has a choice. He still has power over the paths he can walk. But if Zayn had a choice, he would have faded out. Burning out is all too common a feeling these days.
Of course, Louis being Louis, they catch up on tidbits of gossip over fish and chips from a food cart on the corner. He talks about how Niall's brewery is a massive hit and how Harry's finally found 'the one'. He jumps from topic to topic rather quickly, moves on to which teammate of his is on the outs with the team and so on and so forth with various news, and Zayn finds it artificial yet refreshing, even if he knows Louis is purposely avoiding any mention of Liam.
But he does do one thing that hits too close to home. Louis runs his hands through Zayn's hair, which had only started to fill out again. He shaved it all off after Liam had gone - the media had a field day when a pap published the image for the world to see and pity, and that was the last thing he needed, for everyone to glorify the pain and misery he felt - and looked like he did when he first auditioned.
The warmth of the touch catches him off guard. He doesn't expect how comforting it feels and how it reminds him of how he did that to Liam when he shaved his own head - first after a break up, later for surgery -, how Zayn ran his hands across the stubble and watched Liam smile in response.
Zayn jerks away and does his best to stop his eyes from singeing. Louis sputters an apology, suddenly feeling his heart grow heavier as well, and after Zayn waves it off, the two dwell in the silence. Times like these remind him that everyone had lost Liam. Some lost bits and pieces, others lost a piece of their history, like pages ripped out from their storybook, and Zayn... well, Zayn lost his better half.
After lunch, he promises that they'll hang out again, although neither of them openly agree that it would be a while from now. When Louis pulls away, Zayn takes note of the forced joy leaving his eyes and why he had looked so beaten to begin with. He lets a "I miss him, too" slip out to the wind and turns away.
He walks up the steps to his home, a house that seemed too shack-like when two people lived there and a mansion now that he alone occupied it. He thinks about getting a dog or some sort of pet to occupy his time with and to fill the space, now that he has no one to spend it with.
He thinks it sad that he had grown so dependent on Liam. It's like he thought he knew how to ride a bike and when Liam left, the training wheels which he thought were gone were whisked away, and he was on the ground bleeding and wondering when the hurt would ever stop.
A glance at his wrist tells him that it's barely noon, and he still has an entire day to do something. Anything. He could fly out and see Niall and come back before bedtime. He could fly out of the country, really, and go anywhere and return before his tour started. But as much as he wants to leave, his house is where he feels safest, despite almost everything achingly reminding him of memories formed with someone who didn't exist anymore.
Liam bought the set of spoons, the sofa in the living room, the abominable contraption that refuses to make a batch of decent coffee when Zayn uses it. He winces at the thought of using past tense too much because, like everything he sees, it reaffirms that day. 'Were' should be 'are' and 'was' should be 'is' he thinks— wants.
In the living room, as he's settling down with a bowl of ice cream and watching the game, his phone rings. From afar, he eyes it with caution. It could be his parents, and he knows well enough by now that if they're calling him, the first and only thing they'll ask is, "How are you holding up?" It could be Harry or Niall, they usually call around this time of day just to say hello, or it could even be the record company again with some excuse disguising their incompetence.
Relief spreads over him as it's only a telemarketer, and he hangs up before she can even start her script.
He wants to be alone, he thinks, to be surrounded by the painful reminders because as much as they hurt, they're the closest things, tangible, solid evidence that Liam once existed, once loved Zayn as much as Zayn loved Liam. But he knows, somewhere in the deepest layers of his mind, that the sheets have long lost Liam's scent, that the day he died, he could no longer leave his warmth on the couch Zayn's sitting on with an empty bowl in his lap. Eventually, he'll have to start taking things down, putting them away to gather dust or donating them because it would be pointless to keep them all.
For today, however, he decides denial is still the way to go and that shopping for groceries is a good idea, even if he has no idea what to buy other than microwaveable and instant food.
It's not terribly brilliant, he realizes, when everyone recognizes him and shouts his name the moment he saunters in through the door. Flash blinds him from every direction and fans are practically ripping his arms off for a photo-op. No doubt in his mind that this would end up in the tabloids. "R&B Star Zayn Malik shopping next to fat people?! Full scoop inside!"
After about ten minutes of heated attention and forced smiling, most of them leave him alone. He buys milk, remembering that it curdled a week ago, and as he's lifting the jug into his cart, he spots a woman and a child standing close by. She meets his eyes with a soft smile. He nods back and proceeds forward, but her little girl comes up to him with pen and pad. She can't be older than five and bores into him wide, brown eyes. He wonders if Liam had a daughter, whether or not she'd have those same eyes.
"Can I have your autograph?" she asks in a cute, innocent but obviously nervous voice. Her legs are tucked in and her arms behind her back. He watches her keenly and squats down to take the pen and pad.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asks.
"It's Margaret but you can call me Mags," she replies.
He smiles brightly at her and signs it To Mags, my youngest fan. Love, Z. He hands it back to her, and she promptly runs back to her mom and hides behind her legs.
"Thanks," the woman says, "Her dad's a huge fan."
"Oh, yeah? Is he hiding as well?" Zayn jokes, standing back up.
"Uh, no. He's— I'm widowed." She whispers the last part.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean t—"
"No, it's okay. You didn't know."
She brushes it off with such ease that Zayn finds it enviable and fascinating. As the woman tries to coax her daughter to thank him, and before the thought arrives, he finds himself asking, "How did you get over it?" It's quick and blunt, but he can't retract it or rewind time. But to his surprise, she doesn't flinch or waver in her expression. Calmly, she leans in with a reassuring smile and takes a breath. She exudes a sort of knowing from her eyes, a sympathy no one else can offer, and it soothes Zayn.
"It took a while, not gonna lie," she admits, holding her gaze steady with his, "I grieved, and I mourned, and I thought I'd hold on to everything he ever owned."
Zayn nods.
"But one day," she goes on, "I found a note he wrote to me way back when we were studying for finals back in college. It was the first time he said he loved me. And after that, nothing else really mattered. It's odd. Not one of his photos or belongings made me feel like I was ready. Just that dusty piece of paper. It made me feel like it wasn't the end of the world."
She looks down at her daughter, who's been tugging on the hem of her skirt, whispering something like "I gotta potty", and she thanks him again for the autograph and leaves with a "You'll get there, too."
The rest of the afternoon floats away from him like a summer breeze, and he feels lighter and - dare he think it - hopeful. This new, almost foreign feeling surfaces like a stable rock in a maelstrom that he can cling to, and for the first time in a long time, he knows that he can make it through this. Despite the fact he can't see it yet, he knows there's a light to be seen. He just has to keep on. Even if, at times, getting out of bed feels impossible.
Once home, he sets the groceries away and decides to call Louis. And then Niall and Harry for good measure. He invites them all to his house next week for a reunion of sorts and hopes they'll all come, to which they agree. The training wheels have disappeared, he recognizes, but it's high time he got back on and tried again. And he knows that he'll fall and fall and fall. But one day he'll catch himself, and when he looks back, he knows he'll have healed.
So, it's okay that he's hurting now, even if it incapacitates him at times, because hurting means that it was once very real.