Zayn sits in the middle of the floor of his room later that night, just before bed.
He's naked.
And he's naked because he doesn't feel worthy of wearing clothes. He feels as empty as he's ever felt. His insides feel like they are gone, like they don't exist.
He feels hollow.
I can't be real. he thinks. Real people don't go through this because there's no way stuff like this happens in real life.
He's got his pad from under the bed and he's roughly scratching out possible suicide possibilities that he's sure will fail now. He's got about 20 left on this list now. Compared to the 36 in total he had listed at first, it's quite the trim.
"Only nineteen more left, Zayn." It's his voice speaking.
"Yeah, and only three more months." Zayn replies.
"Yeah."
Zayn ponders the thought for a while, before a half smile appears on his face. "And I can't wait." he whispers.