Strings and Schemes

Chapter 22

A/N: hi!! thought now was as good as any to premiere a new banner for the story - the original will still make features but felt like playing with canva & thought this encapsulated the next phase of this story... :) not ominous at all. 

(Zayn's POV)

I stare at the message. I read it. Again. And again. 

I meant every word of what I said. 

My fingers twitch over the keyboard.

The truth is, I don't know what the fuck to say. Because she meant every word. And so did I. But meaning something doesn't make it simple. Doesn't undo the damage or erase the weight of everything unsaid.

I type.

Delete.

Type again.

Delete.

I rake a hand through my hair, breathing out through my nose, and drop my phone onto the table. It buzzes slightly, shifting against the wood, but I don't look.

I can't look.

I stand up, pacing across the room. The night is too quiet, too empty, and my thoughts are too fucking loud.

There's a guitar in the corner of the studio. I grab it without thinking, settling onto the couch, letting my fingers find the chords without a plan. A melody forms—not new, not old, just something in between.

The words are harder to find.

They always are when I'm too deep in it.

When I feel too much and not enough all at once.

I strum again, shifting the key.

I  been fucked and I want ya 

I can't even text ya

It lingers in the air, raw and unpolished.

I let it fade.

My phone lights up again. A missed call—Louis.

I don't answer. Another text from Liam.

We're playing poker tomorrow. You should come.

I exhale slowly, shaking my head. I know what this is. They're trying to drag me out, force me to say whatever it is I won't admit.

I pick up my phone. I hesitate. Then, finally, I reply.

Maybe.

I don't know what the fuck I'm doing anymore.

But maybe tomorrow, I'll figure it out.

(Raina's POV)

The morning is worse than the night. I don't know what I envisioned when he came to my gallery. That he would whisk me up in his arms, forgive me for being so stupid and apologize for how he reacted. But, that didn't happen. We wandered the city and had more questions than answers.

I wake up too early, my body wired with restless energy. My first instinct is to check my phone. Nothing. I swallow, ignoring the sharp stab of disappointment. Of course, he didn't answer. I am afraid that maybe it really is over.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, exhaling through my nose. I have work to do. There's no time to sit in this feeling, to dissect the way my chest tightens every time I think of him standing in that gallery, seeing himself through my hands.

No time to acknowledge the fact that, for the first time, I let someone all the way in—and now I don't know if they'll stay.

I force myself out of bed, padding barefoot to the kitchen. My apartment still smells like paint and the remnants of last night's tequila. I glance at the newly hung piece of art from Zayn; even if it's over, I want that piece from and centre.