not okay {ziam}

twenty-one

without wasting any time, i open the left door closest to me and shut the door immediately. i'm hyperventilating and unable to calm down, as i squeeze my eyes closed. yet it doesn't help, i'm plagued with fear and the incessant wobble of my knees. i rest my body up against the wood of the door and try to stabilize, fluttering my vision to take in where i am. it's a bathroom and as my fingers twist around the doorknob, relief clutches me as i find a lock. it clicks and it's then i feel safe. the pounding inside of me slowly ceases and i'm able to move towards the sink. no one can get me in here. i'm alone. i'm okay.

already i'm looking towards the window beside the shower and how i could escape through it. it seemed like a big fall. it seemed like it would hurt.

in a moment of silent calculation of how i could possibly vanish, i find myself clutching the porcelain and gazing into the mirror. i see my face and gape at my sheer, washed skin in the reflection. my cheeks aren't smeared with mud from last night and my hands aren't covered in dried flecks of blood. instead, my flesh is rosy and clear, like i had been rubbed with a wet towel. i touch the back of my head and feel the trauma across my scalp, yet my fingers come back unbloodied. standing in my boxers and a clean shirt i don't recognize, i realize i had been taken care of.

a strange, unfamiliar sensation creeps through me as i try desperately to remember. i try to imagine zayn looking after me and my mind comes up with a blank. yet my cheeks flush and my pulse quickens and i find myself touching my lips. the feeling of wanting to flee dissipates and instead, doubt engulfs me. the longer i spend staring at myself in the reflection, i become aware that the mirror has a latch and that it opens up into a cabinet. somehow i assume that i'm still standing in an exhibit, trying to find what's real and what doors i can open and what details would display human life. everything appeared as though it were set up for show, that if i knocked on the walls surrounding me they would all topple over into a cutout box. everything is pristine and white, untouched and simulated forgery.

the emptiness of zayn's bathroom causes questions to thud through my mind. i wonder how he had managed to wipe my face and keep it all so tidy, as if the place had been untouched. curiosity gets the better of me and suddenly i'm pulling the shelf open in front of me. again it appears to be barren of anything that could indicate to a teenage boy. i couldn't find any obnoxious aerosol or cheap condoms left inside. instead, all i find are white packets written across them with unintelligible handwriting and words i can't pronounce. there are bottles of disinfectant and bleach and suddenly my vision blurs with the high of what it feels like to trespass again. to succumb to a need of mine that is illicit and addicting all at once. i dive into my intrusion like a trained skill of mine that i had acquired from all the years i spent alone.

i wonder why i can't stop myself from reaching out and touching his belongings. the impulse of prying past zayn's privacy feels like a bad habit that i can't kick. rather i just convince myself that it's okay -- it's okay if i open the small packet because it had already been used. that it's okay if slip my fingers inside and pull out the sleeve, only to take a quick glance at. that it's okay if i find pills stashed inside with his full name printed boldly in black and white -- zayn j malik.

the medication reads as, olanzapine -- zyprexa. take as needed. promptly i'm reminded of the telltale sound of zayn's bag slung around his shoulder, the melodic rattle of pills that followed him everywhere.

i shove the tablets back inside the packet and put them back where i found them. guilt pours through my veins as i close the cabinet and step away. i realize in that moment, i don't think i really want to know what those pills are. regret plummets down to my toes as i twist away from the mirror, pale with the omission of my queries that swim through my mind. the intoxication of my meddling drizzles past my fingertips and leaves me stranded. stuck on my wobble, reeling on suspicion. i can't help myself from wondering, wondering if those pills are simply antibiotics, maybe antiviral, painkillers, tranquilizers — i swallow the thought.