Strings and Schemes

Chapter 22

Visualizing my own life has been fleeting since I was a kid, but I don't even know how to visualize a life without him. The thought that I could have had everything I wouldn't let myself want walk away from me, that is worse than anything else I've ever gone through. I stop myself from getting lost in my thoughts, flicking the elastic band around my wrist. Inflicting some sort of pain to block the thoughts from eating me alive.

Then, as if the universe is playing some kind of cruel joke, there's a knock at my door.

My heart leaps into my throat. For a second, I don't move.

Then, slowly, I push myself up, crossing the room with hesitant steps. My fingers tremble as I reach for the handle.

I open the door.

And there he is.

Zayn.

Standing in my doorway, looking like he's been through hell, like he's been fighting something inside him and barely survived. His hands are shoved into his pockets, his shoulders tense, his eyes dark and unreadable.

For a moment, we just stand there.

Neither of us speaking. Neither of us moving.

Then, finally, he exhales.

"I can't do this anymore."

I swallow hard. "Then why did you come?"

His jaw clenches. "Because -" he cuts himself off.

I wait, patiently.

"Because, I can't do this without you anymore, either."

The words knock the breath from my lungs.

He steps forward, close enough that I can feel his warmth, his presence, the unspoken things between us pressing in from all sides.

"I saw it," he says softly. "The exhibit. Everything. I saw what you made."

I nod, barely able to form words. "And?"

His eyes search mine, and for the first time in weeks, I see it—the vulnerability, the raw edges of whatever this thing is between us.

"I think..." He swallows. "I think you saw me before I was ready to be seen."

I blink. "Zayn - "

"I need to let you heal at your own pace, I can't expect you to stop all your habits just because I am able to handle the tough stuff."

The words are quiet, almost fragile, but they shatter something between us.

He doesn't hesitate. He walks inside. The door clicks shut behind him.

For a second, neither of us move. The air between us is charged, thick with things left unsaid. The apartment still smells like paint and plaster, the remnants of my work scattered around us like pieces of my own exposed ribcage.

Zayn doesn't speak right away. He looks around, his eyes catching on The Gilded Cage. His jaw tenses.

Then finally, quietly—too quietly—he says, "I was ready to hold all of it."

A sharp exhale leaves my lungs. I force myself to meet his gaze. It's a look I haven't seen from him before.

Not just anger. Not just frustration.

Hurt.

Hurt in a way that makes my stomach twist.

"I - " I try to speak, but I don't even know what I'm trying to say.

Zayn lets out a quiet, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You needed me. You wanted me. And I was there, Raina." His voice is low, steady, but it cuts. "I was there, and you still wouldn't let me in."