(DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. It's important to remember this is all totally fabricated, embellished, and exaggerated for entertainment purposes.)
*********
This thing upon me is not death...
but it's as real..."
Charles Bukowski | Old Man Dead In A Room
All that sustained me for those next two shows in Manila was repeatedly watching Ariana perform my song, "Just A Little Bit Of Your Heart" at the 57th Grammys on YouTube, (listening to her belt my truths which I was too afraid to voice), and also covering as many of Z's parts as I could onstage. I wanted to be as close to him as possible, and this was the only way I could think of without outright wearing his leftover clothes and jewelry.
I covered more of his parts than anyone, and before long the boys got the gist of why I was so adamant about doing them myself, and they tried to comfort me in weird ways during his absence. For the first time in my career, I wore a bright yellow shirt. And unknowingly, I even left space both nights during "Little Things," (I suppose subconsciously not wanting to shut him out.) Both times Niall and Liam forced me to move over to maintain appearances, and in doing so I felt a little more of Z be erased.
During our first rehearsal without him, things were unusually quiet. We had become so accustomed to him singing under his breath and humming between sets, that the absence of his voice was more haunting than any of us cared to admit. I wasn't prepared for how much I'd miss it around the house, or miss hearing it in bed before I fell asleep whenever he stayed up to watch Netflix beside me. Always with headphones on, always in his own world and ignorant of the fact that I could hear him. Crooning silly things like "Friday" by Megan Black or Stevie Wonder's soulful version of the birthday song.
I missed hearing it when we went out window shopping at some obscure little thrift spot outside of Bradford or Cheshire. Or if we dared and got a B&B for one night, we'd brave a shop at a seaside market and cook each other dinner. It was the only way we could actually date. Creating our own little worlds outside of the world. Carving out our own unique slices of heaven, all over rural England, or in the remote quarters of our hometowns. Places where TV and the internet were rare commodities, and even if they possess them, it was unlikely they gave a damn about One Direction.
In any scenario, his singing was a constant. Yes, I missed it when we were in the car with nothing but a map and the clothes on our backs, searching for some removed place in Northern England to eat, sleep, and make love before we had to meet up with the crew again.
**********
In the wee hours on the 24th of March, I was awakened by a call from him. My relief at hearing his voice quickly dissolved as he choked up and openly wept, saying he didn't want to come back. But he was also afraid to leave, knowing he'd lose everything, and that his family would be disappointed in him for quitting. He said he would be disappointed in himself for giving up, and that the fans would hate him for abandoning them. He said that the media would destroy him for the rest of his life.
I talked him down from the proverbial ledge for hours, trying to calm him because he was so frantic and emotional I could barely make out what he was saying anymore. What I could decipher was his anger. He was angry with everyone. Me, the boys, the producers, the label, Modest, his parents, his friends, Perrie, himself. His accent grew ten times denser whenever he was upset, and on top of the free-flowing tears, it was too much for me to withstand or fathom. I broke once or twice myself, just hearing his voice quaver, hearing him gasp and whimper, hearing him articulate his worst anxieties like he'd awakened from a nightmare and could no longer distinguish between it and reality.
The things he described left me disconcerted (to put it mildly.) He spelled them out in such alarming detail that I marveled. He made me privy to what he had been battling for the last few months leading up to the breaking point, and now it all made sense. Suddenly I understood from an outside perspective why he was always late; why he skipped out on events; why he couldn't and wouldn't eat sometimes, off and on for weeks. I understood why he stood his ground on the latter no matter how much I fought him and admonished him about it.
It was only after I educated myself on the dangers of eating disorders that I realized it was as much a mental ailment as a physical one. I also came to understand that while he may have imagined he was under control of the situation, in truth he was ignorant of the fact that he was battling something severe. His denial had made it all the more difficult to treat and overcome. Those were some of the worst days and months of my life, seeing him wither away to nothing before my eyes and being powerless to stop it because he rejected my concerns and refused to speak on it.
In my obsessive research on the subject, I discovered that one of the gravest detriments to a person suffering with this condition was dehydration. The damage that dehydration could inflict on the body was shocking to say the least. Hence why I force-fed him water during every show, and why I went out of my way to make ensure he was eating backstage or at home. Whether that be through random check-up calls, or showing up at his hotel room unannounced with his favorite snacks and dishes. It's also why I didn't mind him smoking weed, because it made him inexplicably hungry afterwards; and in my book that was a means to my end. The lesser of two evils, so to speak.
Now I could hear the fear and confusion reach its zenith as he rambled on. His panic palpable, reaching out to me through the phone, begging me for help even though he was too headstrong to admit it. For lack of a better word, he was manic, and I felt f—king terrible for being a part of the machine that had contributed to his breakdown. He was utterly lost, and since I was lost too by association, it rendered me inept.
Nevertheless, I needed to act. I begged him to see a therapist while he was home with his mom, but he refused. Then I told him to come back to me, and we'd figure it all out from there. I told him to return because I thought it would do wonders for him to be surrounded with familiar people and familiar sounds, and to feel structured again with a daily agenda. He needed to be occupied, not sat at home alone, overthinking himself to madness. He needed all manner of familiarity now. Mainly me, the boys, the bus. Anything else would simply feel too strange for the time being, even his own family and London home.
I didn't like the idea of him being isolated, especially considering that after he returned home the other day, articles dropped which showed Perrie had packed a few leather Louis Vuitton duffel bags and left him (mere hours after he returned to London.) I wanted to get a hold of him and tell him to look me in the eyes and remember who he was—who he'd become over the last five years. We'd all have a 'sit down' and discuss our future together, and figure out how we could facilitate a more rational exit that wouldn't leave him disoriented and consumed with guilt.
That at least was my hope. I had no idea how the others would react to his wanting to leave, or whether having a sit down with everyone would only serve to compound his anxiety; but it was worth a shot. Anything was better than the state he was in now, manic and alone. I could do more for him if he was in front of me. I could help him decision without my selfish reservations getting in the way this time.
Finally, he agreed and promised he would be there in Cape Town, whether sh-t or shine, whether he decided to stick with the band or not. I breathed easy, knowing I would see him again, but still struggled with the abject idea that I must eventually let him go. I couldn't continue to ignore the fact that it was far better to let him go and lose him momentarily, than to cling to him, weigh him down, and possibly lose him in a tragic way.
**********
Later that day on the 24th (in Jakarta, Indonesia), I was awakened by our team. Already, that spelled trouble. They never gathered us on short notice in the middle of the day unless something drastic had occurred. I shut off the rough demo of "I Won't Mind" he'd given me in 2014, and rubbed the crud from my eyes. That song was the only thing that'd gotten me through the night after speaking with him. Little did I know that in a few days' time it would be leaked and the entire world would hear something he had written and recorded for my ears only.
Half an hour later, I and the other boys were called to a huge conference room on the first floor of the hotel. Modest was on the phone, as was Simon; and our entire team was present occupying all the chairs and the space along the walls. (Jon, Dan, Sandy, Josh, Cal, our new tour manager, security, the local PR).
I was the last to arrive, and without question, I knew it was about Z. Everyone sat around the large table looking grim, and no one dared to speak. My breath was shallow. I just knew they were gonna tell us he was dead. The atmosphere in the room was enough to drive anyone insane. I became hysterical, but couldn't show it outwardly. I sat down between Liam and Niall, frozen with terror; my leg bouncing, hitting the underside of the table. My hands gripping the leather armrests and left clammy prints behind. The blinds were partially closed for privacy, and the overhead lights seemed inadequate. I just wished they'd f—king get on with it already before I screamed.
"We've gathered you all here today," Simon began, on Facetime from our manager's phone. I thought fleetingly, at least he didn't preface the opening with "Dearly beloved."
"...because Zayn is no longer with us..." In my head, I went straight to the worst possible interpretation of those words. Whether he was dead or alive, I buried my face into my arms atop the table.
"He's gone...he's quit. For good this time." The relief that should have been present when I realized he wasn't gone-gone, remained absent. My mind processed and grieved the news the same either way.
"What the actual f—k..." Louis breathed. "That fookin' bastard...I knew he'd do it. I fookin' knew it!"
"What a f—king liar, mate," Niall chimed in, truly sullen for what seemed the first time since I met him. "I knew he was lying—telling us he'd be back by South Africa."
"Un-fooking-believable..." Liam sighed. He sounded the least angry, but was equally disheartened.
"Boys...Boys...?" Simon continued, in his long-suffering way. "You and I both knew this day was inevitable. We've discussed it how many times now? Three or four, no?" He cracked and looked disconcerted. He no longer tried to project that classic Simon façade; one of impatience and apathy. He swallowed his pride and simply grieved with us.
"I understand why you're upset, believe me I do. No one here's more upset than I am—"
"Have you spoken with him?" Niall asked.
"Of course. I wouldn't have broken the news without touching base—"
"Wut the fook did he even say, the lousy fooker?!" Louis continued.
"He emailed first—no he rang the office...really early yesterday and didn't get an answer, which is a shame. He didn't try my mobile either, he went straight to email. I think it was better for him that way. You know how Zayn is... doesn't like to talk at all...especially not about things like this..."
I sat there, tears puddling onto the table, drowning in the heat of my own breath inside my folded arms. I couldn't bear to lift my head and face them yet. They talked for a while before noticing I was dead silent.
"H? H?" Simon called.
"Harold..." Niall nudged me. "You good?" I lifted my head and nodded and tried to clean my face with my shirt. I didn't realize I was beet-red and openly crying in front of everyone. I was just too exhausted to pretend anymore. It was always so difficult to pretend I didn't care about that idiot. I loved him so much, and to walk around every day and pretend otherwise threatened to be the death of me. Especially in Jakarta.
Someone handed me a box of tissues and I took a few, although my shirt had already done the job. Someone rubbed my shoulder briefly from behind. It was Cal. He offered a weak smile before moving back to the flank of the room with the rest of the crew. Everyone began to chime in, the hostility rising.
"I say we sue him. Just take him for all he's worth—"
"He's just ungrateful, man, that's all it is," Niall said.
"Always 'as been!" Louis agreed
"C'mon, just hang-on a bloody minute, mate, " Liam said, countering them. "It's Zayn we're talking about here! Zayn! Our brother. That'll never change. Everyone's just a bit flustered now and we ought need to let the situation breathe. Youz lads need be quiet, if I'm honest. You're saying things I know you'll regret later. Let's all gather our heads first. There's still a chance for him to come back, and as far as I'm concerned, there'll always be. The invitation'll remain open. Zayn just needs to cool off and see his mum, and hear from us and know we're listening—"
"Exactly," Simon agreed. "We don't want to wish him ill. We've been at this together too long to desert him now—"
"He deserted us!" Louis averred.
"Damn straight..." Niall said.
"Well he's just being a bit irrational, is all. He's always jumping up the moment he's gotten upset and running away," Simon continued.
"It never lasts," Cal added. I chuckled dryly on the inside. That was precisely Zayn. Except, he had never done anything this drastic before. No one else had seen in his eyes and felt in his body what I had moments before he left. Days before Hong Kong, he had already gone. He had been gone for months. When I think back to those last moments, I shuddered. That was no one but a ghost kissing on me and barely enduring on each night onstage.
Now I stood up and everyone got quiet. I couldn't summon the gall to say anything, so I just walked out of the room—in the middle of everything. I couldn't listen anymore. He wasn't coming back, that much was apparent. And to delude ourselves into believing there was a possibility he might return was an exercise in futility. I'd rather go somewhere and be as livid as I wanted without anyone there to judge, or notice I was being overly emotional about what they perceived to be the loss of a lukewarm acquaintance.
Once I got to my room, I texted my mom, Gemma, and Grimmy. Those were the ones who needed to know right away. They all got the same thing, worded the exact same way. Why? Because they'd been waiting to hear it for a while now. They were the only ones I trusted to talk about Zayn with. They didn't know everything, but they knew a lot. And I'd been waiting to say it since November of last year when he tried to quit before the album release day.
"He's done it then," was all I could think to say. They would know exactly who and what I was referring to, because on some levels they knew. Especially Nick. Later, when my mom and Nick decided to call several times, I couldn't find the will to answer the phone and put on an act. When Nick saw that I screened his call for the fourth time, he replied by text.
Grimshaw: "I'm sorry mate. Don't beat yourself up, okay? Don't do it, Sue. And call me as soon as you can, you lout."
Mom: "Call me, right now. You're still my baby and I know you too well."
Mom: "I want to talk now."
Gemma texted a little while later and it was just a broken heart emoji. She already knew I would call when I was ready, so she didn't press the issue.
Now I jumped up and left the hotel room in a hurry, unsure of where I was headed. Our security caught up to me several blocks later and I continued to ignore their shouts for me to get in the car. Some fans saw me from across the street, but once they registered my mood, they kept their distance and shouted my name from afar. I couldn't acknowledge them. I didn't want to hurt anyone.
I found the nearest convenience store and bought the first tequila I could find. I took it back to my room and locked everyone out and did half a dozen shots by myself. Then I lay in the center of the floor and tried to smoke the last of his leftover cigarettes. They made me dizzy and gave me an instant headache, but I kept going, coughing until my ribs cracked between puffs.
Despite my blood being as thin as water and throbbing at my temples, the nicotine washed over me like a baptism. I got drowsy and couldn't remember how I was supposed to feel. Nauseated? Hungry? Lost? Hurt? Betrayed? Angry? Truth is, I didn't feel anything. The presence of Z made me feel so much and so often that his absence could only have the reverse effect. It left me numb and empty. And I was grateful, because while others might've drowned in the aforementioned emotions, I didn't.
Eventually I started to thaw and felt myself seep all over the floor. Later I took all my clothes off and turned the shower on, but then I sat in the tub and hugged my knees and let the water pelt my head until the hot ran cold.
**********
The show the next day was a nightmare. I had never been so hungover or angry. The fury I felt over him lying to me about Cape Town was only outdone by the betrayal I felt over him breaking the news to me through Simon Cowell hours after that very lie. Like I was just one of the other boys who needed to be informed formally, and not a significant other who he'd been kissing and making promises to right up until the final moments before his exit.
I had no composure when I stepped onstage. The crowd was wild, lending me their all, so I masked my fury as enthusiasm and shouted my way through every song, absolutely refusing to sing a single word of his parts. None of the parts I'd covered for him in the previous two shows would leave my lips. F—k him. He didn't deserve the breath it would take to make up for his absence. At least not today. But I knew I would eventually go back to covering them because the fans deserved it.
For today, I held my ground and the other boys covered for him all night. I knew Zayn would watch that show. There's no way he wouldn't. And when he did, I wanted him to see that I wasn't singing for him. I wanted him to see that I wasn't sad for him.
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