Nervous to post this, but here it is! I really hope this works out. 😅
Warning: Minor depictions of a negative self-image and self-doubt. Also a minor mention of depression/mental illness.
Hopefully the ending of this one can make you smile or feel hopeful!
Chapter 31:
"I read your letter," I whispered, tucking my hands away in my sweatshirt pocket, the letter crumbled up in my palm. My eyes were staring at Zayn's hands by his sides. They were covered in light shades of paint, even a few drops on his jeans, which were a dark black.
I saw Zayn step aside, allowing me into the warehouse, and I took tentative steps inside. For the first time, the silence between us was heavy; the air was thick, tense, and awkward.
Zayn still didn't say a word as he shut the huge door of the warehouse and walked passed me. I listened to the sound of his footsteps, then I lifted my head, watching him walk back over to the painting that sat on the canvas.
He sat on the stool in front of it, but he made no move to continue working on it. He sat there, paintbrush in his hand and his head hanging low. Then, ever so faintly, I finally heard him speak.
"What did you think?"
My eyes widened as he turned back to look at me. His eyes stared into my own from across the room, bold and beautiful. Once more, it was as if I was suffocating.
"I don't know," I admitted, despising the way my hands began to shake in the pocket of my hoodie. I couldn't stare at him any longer-- eyes drifting around the room, scanning over the various paintings along the walls of the warehouse, looking at the strings of lightbulbs that made up the lighting in the room. It was all a soft glow that I'm sure was brighter during the day.
"Sorry it wasn't a Shakespearean sonnet," Zayn joked, sounding at ease. It brought my eyes back to him, and I thought I saw the faintest blush of red on the apples of his cheeks as he stared at the ground in front of me.
"I prefer free verse," I whispered, but the space in the room created a whisper of an echo that carried my voice to him.
He looked up at me, our eyes meeting as the air in the room seemed to get sucked away.
Then, that smile that I adored so much. For the first time ever, I was floating as butterflies erupted within me. My heart didn't feel so heavy.
"That was only part one," Zayn revealed, and I raised an eyebrow at him. He only stood from the stool and motioned for me to follow behind him.
I moved, following his footsteps, to the corner of the warehouse where he had stacks of paintings and unused canvases. One was covered by a sheet, carefully leaned against the wall a small distance away from the rest.
"I painted this for you. It goes with the poem. It's... how I see you," He said, hands fidgeting with the sheet over the canvas. He looked at me, waiting until I was ready to see it. Zayn just always seemed to understand when I needed a moment. He understood how difficult this was for me-- after all, he was the one who listened to me describe my self-image, writing down every toxic word.
I took deep breaths. Every bone in my body was screaming at me to just turn away and leave. I didn't want to know how he saw me. Maybe I wouldn't like it. Maybe it was all just an extravagant joke.
Nevertheless, I clenched my fists and gave a terse nod. He carefully removed the sheet from over the canvas, revealing the painting underneath.
My eyes scanned over the art in front of me as Zayn took slow steps backwards, stopping by my side. He didn't say a word, only allowed me to take in the painting against the wall.
It was breath-taking.
It was a painting of a boy, staring in what appeared to be a mirror. The painting used light and delicate colours, showing the depths of the boy's eyes as he stared straight into my own. The frame that surrounded him was black and solid, but it didn't seem to trap him.
The boy in the painting wasn't me. It couldn't be. He had scars that were in the correct spots, but they weren't nearly as hideous and grotesque as my own. If anything, they were faint and not as distracting. He didn't look like a monster.
There were splashes of colour bursting out from the yellow-toned background of the painting, pinks and blues and purples all blending together in the shapes of handprints. I thought back to the bright dried paint that covered Zayn's hands.
The forefinger of one handprint stopped just near the boy's eyebrow, the thumb of another pressed gingerly against his lips. A flower blossomed near the corner of the black frame around the boy.
He had similar brown hair, brown eyes that held a suffocating and infinite sadness, and lips that didn't seem to even know what a smile is. He was so familiar... but he was beautiful.
"Finished it early this morning," Zayn finally voiced from beside me in a low tone. He held his hands up as an explanation or proof of evidence as I glanced at him.
I stepped closer to the painting. My fingers uncurled from the fists I had formed, and I reached out for the painting. Before I could touch the surface of the canvas, I dropped my hand, unable to bring myself to do so.
"That's not me."
I knew that I was broken, but I had never truly felt the extent of that brokenness until I looked at the boy in that painting.
"He's not horrendous."
Tears sprang from my eyes like the rain clouds I tended to love so much, but not nearly as gentle or lovely. Harsh, fast, and warm they rained down my cheeks.
I felt Zayn's hand in my own, seeing the blurred colours of paint on his hand before he lifted my chin to his face.
"You are not horrendous, Liam. You are that boy in the painting. You are beautiful and strong, but you are also in so much pain that you can't see that in yourself. But I see it. Your family sees it."
I shook my head, feeling foolish.
"His scars are bearable to look at. Mine are sickening."
"They aren't," Zayn said, and I felt his hand moved to touch the scar by my eyebrow. I remembered the poem, closing my eyes at the overwhelming feeling and feeling his hand flit to the scar beside my nose. Finally, his thumb pressed to my lip, right over the final scar. "People like Jaden just made you feel like they are."
"Why did you write that poem?" I pressed, squeezing my eyes shut while leaning into Zayn's touch.
Every part of me was shaking in his careful hold. My heart was barely hanging onto its own pieces by small threads. They would be so easy to cut and allow to fall apart. Still, I asked the question I didn't know if I wanted an answer to.
"You asked me to write how I see you."
He spoke as if it was the most obvious thing; as if I knew all along what he would write.
Perhaps I did.
Perhaps I had the smallest indication of the way he saw me; the way he felt, but my mind was wired to believe that it was impossible.
If he were the ocean and I were the moon.
"I... I need you to tell me why."
"Why what?" Zayn questioned, and I felt him step closer-- only ever closer, but I didn't turn away this time.
Why what? What did I want from him? What did I want to know when I couldn't even admit the truth of his poem to myself?
"Just... why?" I whimpered out, hands moving to clutch at the bottom of his shirt, feeling so much trepidation.
"Because you deserve to know that there is someone who thinks you're more than enough," Zayn admitted, slowly making my heart ache with every word. "Someone who sees the scars and you and doesn't try to separate the two because they are you; a part of you. And you are beautiful."
I was still crying, tears still running down my face, but they were running at a slow and steady pace now. I stared at Zayn's chest, not saying a word or having the strength to look at him.
"I didn't say a word before because I didn't know how. Then, you admitted that there was another boy at school."
My lie. My fib to push Zayn away in the crushing moment that I realized my emotions for him were more than what I should have for a friend. I hadn't had a friend in so long.
If we were walking on a tightrope, dangerously growing closer to each other with no way around one another, then this was the moment before we fell. I could decide if I fell alone, or if I was selfish enough to allow him to fall with me.
"...There was no boy," I breathed out. So quiet. So soft. So frightened.
I felt Zayn's lips press a kiss to my forehead before they broke out into a small smile against my skin. Then, he was lifting my chin carefully and looking me in the eyes.
"How long?"
"Only that same day that I lied about it."
This was one of the hardest thing I have ever done, but I kept thinking back on what Louis said.
"It's better to hurt than to never know."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Wasn't it obvious? Didn't he realize how vastly different we were? There were so many reasons; too many reasons.
"I couldn't," I settled for. "You would never feel the same."
"Liam," He spoke sadly, his thumb tracing along the scar of my lip. His eyes followed the movement before they looked up to meet my own. He leaned in closer, eyes drifting down to my lips once more, and I was frozen in place as he removed his thumb from my lips and replaced the delicate touch with the feel of his own.
It felt like falling.
We finally collided on the tightrope, and now we were hurling down with the wind flying passed us.
Zayn's lips were soft. Softer than I ever imagined. The way his thumb rested on my chin, pulling me in gently, was everything I needed but also enough to make me collapse. I hesitated, not sure what to do or how to react to something I thought was impossible.
Finally, I moved my lips against his. I heard him give a small sigh before really kissing me. I felt breathless as our lips moved together, a terrifying daydream actually coming true.
Then, I felt the tears fall from my closed eyes.
I didn't realize that I was crying until Zayn pulled away with a concerned expression. He cradled my face in his hands, brushing my tears away with his thumbs.
"Liam, please tell me what's wrong?"
I began to breathe erratically, a laughter bursting free from my chest, but it wasn't from joy.
"I can't- do this. I can't have this," I sobbed, trying to step away from Zayn, but I also didn't want to leave his touch. It was calming. Steady. The only thing that let me know the kiss was real.
Zayn was silent, allowing me to cry as he held me close.
"I don't know what I'm feeling," I offered, needing him to help me understand.
"That's okay. It's okay not to know. You don't owe me anything."
"I can't have this. Y-you can't like me that way. It's impossible."
Now Zayn looked bemused.
"Why do you think that's impossible?"
"Because you're you!" I cried, tears of heavy shame rushing down my cheeks. It wasn't a pretty cry. It was all sniffles and gasps of breath, choking on my own emotions. "And I'm me. I- I'm not what everyone sees. I'm not strong or a warrior or normal or good. I'm not beautiful or captivating. I'm a mess. I'm nothing!"
"You're not," Zayn promised, squeezing my hand in his. "You are everything to your family. They love you. And you are the most beautiful person I have ever met-- inside and out."
"You're beautiful," I explained, finally stepping away from his hold, "not me."
Zayn was everything that I wasn't. He was successful, charming, likable, kind, stable, and so easy to trust. Even if he was only a few years older than me, he was built up so heavily. He worked for everything he had. I had nothing.
"I don't believe that," Zayn said, and that caught my attention. What did he mean?
"How can you not see it?" I wondered.
Zayn was lovely. He had all of the qualities a person would want. Dark and handsome features. No scars, no marks, no flaws.
"I could say the same to you," He pointed out.
I opened my mouth to reply, but I couldn't think of anything to say. I couldn't argue with that statement.
"I guess nobody ever truly sees how amazing they are in someone else's eyes, do they?" He wondered aloud, not expecting an answer for a second.
Zayn gave me a small smile as I stood there, only a few steps away from him, with a ball of uncertainty riling up inside of me. He made no move to approach me. He only gave me the space I needed in that moment.
"I can't do this...." I trailed off, seeing Zayn's smile fall. His lips pressed into a gentle line as he tried not to show his obvious disappointment. "I don't know the first thing about this. How to act or show it. I- I'm not ready for... for this."
I was being so vague; so unfair. But Zayn, always the calming breeze running passed me on that tightrope up so high, wasn't angry with me.
"I'm sorry," He apologized, and my eyes met his once more. There was an ache of sorts hidden behind those amber eyes. "I shouldn't have kissed you without asking. I should have figured out where you were at in your mind first."
"It's not your fault," I admitted, feeling my cheeks grow hot. "I liked it, but I-"
"You aren't ready for a relationship. Or dating."
I shrank in on myself, folding my arms across my chest and staring at the hard floor of the warehouse.
"I'm sorry."
"What for?" Zayn immediately responded. Only then did he take steps closer to me. I didn't dare look up at him, seeing his shoes stop mere inches in front of mine. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the air in the warehouse becoming quite cold as the afternoon settled in.
He made no move to reach out to touch me, and I didn't know whether I was thankful for that or not. I felt I would break under his touch, but I also craved the feeling of being cared for.
"You don't have to apologize for not being ready, Liam. Ever. Not to me or anybody else. Do you understand?" I gathered up my courage and looked up, meeting the fire behind his eyes. "You decide what you're ready for and what you can handle. Okay? Never let someone else decide that for you."
"I don't like hurting everybody," I confessed. My chest was tight. Like all of my emotions were bubbling up inside, just waiting to erupt or fizzle out. I couldn't tell.
"You won't. Not by doing what's best for you."
"I don't want you to leave," I added in a whisper. I bashfully met Zayn's eyes once more. I was inadequate in the moment. Pushing and pulling-- that's what I was doing. Pulling in the tides to push them out once more. Changing my mind again and again and again. Going in circles that never seemed to end.
"I won't."
Zayn always told the truth. Still, I knew that eventually he would go back to school, somewhere far away from this little town I called home. Allowing this crush to develop into something more would be like pouring salt in my own wounds; infecting them and feeling them burn.
"I like you, Zayn," I blurted out, cheeks heating up quickly. My body was an iron. I could probably brand him just by touch. "I just... I just need a friend. Only a friend," I admitted, finding that it was true as I spoke the words.
As much as I craved Zayn's lips on mine once more, the tingling feeling still lingering there, I couldn't force myself to accept his affections. My mind, my heart, and my soul wasn't ready for that commitment. Perhaps if it happened before the accident.
"I understand. I won't push you for anything, Liam. If friendship is what you need, then I will be that for you." Zayn agreed so easily. Another small smile met his lips, and I knew it was genuine due to the spark in his eyes. "Speaking of friendship, it's been two weeks since our frozen yogurt hangout. We can go now if you want, and maybe then you can critique my poem. Let me know how horrendous it was." He turned to walk toward the warehouse exit, and his fleeting form caused a panic within me.
He was joking, trying to lighten the mood from the dark place I set us in. I knew it was only a matter of time before my mind began to attack me once again, but it felt a little better to have Zayn be so understanding. While my family pushed or pried, Zayn never seemed to. He was always just there when I needed it.
I knew that I was closing the door on this. It was my decision, and I somehow knew it was right in the moment, but it still petrified me. What if the door was shut and never opened again? What if I was pushing the tides out too far that they would overtake the safety of the shore?
"Zayn, I-" I stumbled out, making him pause and turn back to me. He must have seen the trouble in my expression.
I didn't know how to ask for what I wanted. Just one more.
He said he wasn't angry, but I didn't know for sure. If this would be it; all I would ever receive from him. If this was one time, and I ruined it all. If his feelings would change when he realized how truly wrecked I am.
I didn't know how to ask, but I didn't even have to say a word.
He approached me once again, and I saw his smile reach his eyes-- kind and revealing. He stared down at my lips once more, and I held my breath, willing him to do it; for just one more chance before the door shut on the mere possibility of us.
He leaned in, and I shut my eyes once more, feeling a butterfly of a kiss on the skin of my cheek.
Slowly, hesitantly, carefully, I opened my eyes to see his patient smile.
"I...." I trailed off, not sure what to make of his actions.
Zayn lifted my hand to his lips, pressing one final kiss to my fingertips and lowering my hand to my side.
"You're lovely, Liam," He complimented, and I realized everything in that one moment.
Zayn's actions spoke louder than any of his promises could. If I had doubts before, I understood now.
He wanted to, just as much as I wanted to. But he knew something of self-control where I didn't.
His kiss to my cheek was so much more than just holding himself back. It was so much more than reservations or second-thoughts. It wasn't even about our friendship. No, it was more.
It was a silent vow that made my heart stutter in my chest as we walked side by side out of the warehouse-- hands brushing against each other on purpose but never once intertwining.
It was falling from that tight rope up so high, only the crash-- the pain and ache-- never arrived.