A Studious Affliction [Ziam] [Student/teacher]

Chapter Eleven.

Oh my goodness, I'm on Chapter 11.... That's so strange, don't you think? Anyway, thank you so much for all your love and your support. I've passed 180 fans and 1, 400 votes and I can barely believe it! Thank you, honestly. Wow.

Anyway, this is not the chapter I thought it was going to be - so, yeah, you wont like it as much as I enthused last chapter. Sorry about that but I really hope you like it!

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I like Harry. There is something about him that is wholesome; his smile, for instance, is contagious. When I go to his house and he opens his door and smiles, I can’t help but feel the pain in my chest numb a little and simper back at him. He looks a little surprised at my presence but he steps forward and pulls me into his arms anyway, kissing me quickly.

“Hey,” he says, grinning. “I wasn’t expecting you. Aren’t you in college today?”

I shrug, feeling smaller, suddenly. “I –ah… had to go. I need you.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, his eyes sparkling as the dimples in his cheeks become more prominent. “Hmmm… you need me? When did you last have me – a few days ago?”

I’d gone to see him on Saturday after my encounter with Mr. Payne and it had all gone very hastily; I’d be rushed and I was kissing too hard and with too much vigour but Harry didn’t mind – it seemed to encourage him, in fact – and his bringing it up now makes me blush fiercely. “Not in that way,” I splutter.

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “I know, I know,” he says. He opens the door wider, indicating me in. “Come on in, then.”

The atmosphere of Harry’s flat is calming – he uses a lot of leather and wool and the colours cream, brown, red and beige. As he prefers records and record players over CDs, he normally has a lot of older music filtering throughout his apartment – right now, The Beatles are playing quietly in the background and I smile, shrugging off my leather jacket.

“Nice choice,” I say, nodding towards his record player as Harry leads me into the longue.

Harry doesn’t say anything; he only looks at me as I plonk down on his sofa and lay back, letting my eyelids flutter shut. Even though I’m sat here, listening to, arguably, the greatest band ever in an apartment belonging to a great guy who happens to like me, I can’t help but think of Mr. Payne and feel a stab in my stomach. It kills me that all I can think of is him – him and his laugh and his voice and the feel of his body pressed up against mine, and the way my heart jumps when I see him.

In annoyance, I exhale harshly, feeling my eyes pinch again like they did at school, and rub at the space between my eyebrows.

“Why are you here, Zayn?” Harry asks. “What’s wrong?”

Slowly, I open my eyes to look at him. He’s stood a little way in front of me on the opposite side of the coffee table, propped up against the wall. He looks good – really good – and yet… “It’s – it’s a long story.” My heart squeezes in my chest and I clear my throat, eyes flicking away from his. “It’s nothing, really.”

I can feel Harry’s scepticism radiating from him as he laughs – a sound that’s fairly sarcastic. “Zayn,” he says, “I’m not sure if it’s the curly hair that makes me look gullible or what… but I’m not an idiot.” He pauses. “You’ve been crying, haven’t you?”

Do you ever get it where someone speaks to you so softly, so carefully, that it makes the emotion inside of you swell up until you can’t avoid it and you can feel it plucking at your eyeballs, enticing your sadness to pour out your mouth and your eyes? Well, it’s horrible. You want to supress your emotions so much and you manage to, just barely but then they speak and it’s like – it’s like…