Scars (Ziam)

Beauty in Hope

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.