Drifting - Ziam

3.They say it's what you make. I say it's up to fate.

~176hrs~

Maybe saying that Zayn loves his job is too soon, but he does love his shift's schedule. He'll probably have to reorganize the time of his meals to having a late, larger lunch and a much lighter dinner. But he's okay with that. Getting up late in the morning is one of the things Zayn enjoys the most.

He stands up, puts aside his incredibly fluffy comforter that Jay got him last Christmas -it's big, white, and stuffed with goose feathers- and has a bagel with jam and cream cheese as breakfast.

When he's done with his morning rituals he finishes putting away the groceries he got the day before. He was so excited for his first day of work, he just threw into the fridge what could go bad and left everything else in the bags.

He nearly drops the jar of jam as wave of melancholy runs through his body when he realizes what day it is.

It's Waliyha's birthday.

She turns fifteen today. Zayn's mind is suddenly flooded by memories of his family. He remembers Waliyha saying she wanted to celebrate her fifteenth birthday with a party like Alex Russo's in The Wizards of Waverly Place. Zayn can't remember what's it called, but he remembers a big, pink dress. He also recalls his father laughing and saying "We'll see, flower," in a soothing tone.

Zayn fights back the prickling feeling on the back of his eyes, and puts all his family memories on the small, black box in the back of his mind.

He doesn't want to remember. Every time his family comes back to his mind, so does the pain of the rejection he suffered.

If he thinks too much, he knows he'll feel like he's drowning. It has been a while since the last time he felt like that, and he certainly doesn't miss the feeling.

Zayn could definitely use a cigarette.

He could smoke in his own place, but he heads out the door anyway.

And, instead of going down the stairs, he goes up, hoping to find the door that leads to the roof. He does.

Zayn opens it and jams it with a block of concrete.

Before taking out a cigarette, he taps two times the package against the palm of his hand. He doesn't know why, but it's something he always does when it's a new pack like this one.

He bursts the small ball of mint scent at the end of the filter, and he lights his vice.

Tobacco and mint are totally opposite tastes, but that's why Zayn loves it. Tobacco is bitter and aggressive, while the mint relaxes him with his softness.

Together they're like a perfect explosion in his mouth, nostrils, and throat.

He knows he should quit. People die for smoking these things. But in days like this, when the warmth that the smoke provides in his chest is all he's got, he blesses the bastard who invented them.

Only when he has enjoyed the first shots of smoke, he walks to an edge of the roof to take a look at what's surrounding him.

The sky matches his mood. It's not cold, but the sun isn't shining. The city doesn't look busy. Everyone must be already working, since it is around noon on a Tuesday.

He walks around and doesn't find any interesting. Just some rusted junk and some more bricks.

His cigarette burns faster than he'd like.

Zayn finishes it giving it one last, long drag, and he flicks it to the ground, stepping on it to make sure it's put out.

With his mood a little more settled, he returns back to his loft.