Scars (Ziam)

Creative Arts

Hello everyone!

Sorry for the wait for the update, but I am back and completely done with my classes for the semester!

Warning: This chapter mentions depression and guilt. It isn't too heavy, but it is still pretty real and difficult to discuss. The topic of death is also mentioned. Please read carefully, loves! I love every single one of you.

Next chapter will have more Ziam and fluff! ❤

Chapter 34:

"Liam, it's great to see you again. Who have you decided to bring with you today?" Dr. Phillips asked as we met up out front of the creative arts center.

The building was huge. It was a tan colour, and most of the walls were made of clear glass windows, allowing light to stream inside. I could see some of the patients that favored art working on their paintings or drawings in the sunlight. They chatted with one another idly as they painted. Everything seemed so calm, even if they were working through their emotions.

I was nervous to step inside.

"My dad, my sister Ruth, and my friend Zayn," I introduced each of them. Of course, Dr. Phillips was already familiar with my family, but she still greeted each of them with polite handshakes.

"You have a marvelous support system here, Liam," Dr. Phillips smiled. "Are you ready to go inside and meet the therapist you'll be working with?"

I stared at the building. The front door had a welcome sign on it with the hours of business in glowing red lights. I didn't know what to expect, but I nodded nonetheless.

"I'm ready," I announced, and Dr. Phillips smiled before turning and leading the way through the front door of the building. I reached out for Zayn's hand, squeezing as soon as I intertwined our fingers. And, without saying a word, his thumb rubbed on the back of my hand, giving me all of the encouragement I needed.

I caught Ruth's eyes as we stepped into the building. She glanced at our hands and raised an eyebrow at me, smirking. I felt my cheeks grow hot as I looked back down at the ground.

"Hello, and welcome to the Chesterton Creative Arts Center. How may I help you today?" A cheerful receptionist asked as she smiled up at Dr. Phillips.

"Hello. I'm Naomi Phillips. We're here to see Ezra Johnson. He knows we are visiting today for a scheduled tour of the center," She informed, and the receptionist nodded as she informed us that she would go and fetch the man in question. She stood from the circulation desk and walked over to the door that lead to the huge room of creative arts. She swiped her card, the light flashing green, before she pulled it opened and disappeared inside.

"How are you feeling, son?" My father asked. His eyes also traveled down to where my hand was linked with Zayn's. I remembered our conversation the day before. He didn't disapprove of my feelings for Zayn, our feelings for each other, but I knew that he would still be protective. I was in a delicate state, and everyone knew it.

"I'm handling it," I replied. He nodded as the door opened again. The same receptionist walked out and held the door opened for us.

"Mr. Johnson said that you can go right in," She informed. "Hope the center is to your liking!"

We walked passed her into the grand room, and I was instantly intimidated.

The room was definitely spacious. The roof was tall, towering like some sort of skyscraper building. It was opened, the light streaming in from the windows as patients and therapists scattered around the room. Some focused on one single activity while others went back and forth. The atmosphere felt calm enough, cheerful enough, and I felt terrible. I wasn't feeling either of those emotions. I feared that I would bring the mood down.