the pain in his head ebbs and flows like a cold tide, crashing into his temple with more force everytime it recedes. it's worse than normal, worse than anything he has ever felt, stomach churning and sweat beading on his forehead. a veil seems to have been draped between the world and him, everything blurred at the edges and hazy, made worse by the ringing in his ears- or perhaps it is coming from the phone beside him.
it refuses to stop vibrating, vicious reporters, magazine editors, talk shows- all jumping over one another, fighting tooth and nail to be the first exclusive on zayn malik, ex-one direction member and hanahaki victim.
lou calls as well, frantic voicemails thrice a day to ask how he's doing, to apologise for not realising, for not speaking out despite watching him deteriorate show by show. paul is more discreet, but his worry is no less, as proven by the hundred notifications beside his contact name.
and then there are the boys. after all, he is one fifth of one direction and no matter what happens the other four will always be a part of him. non-stop calls that drown out the publicists, texts that fill his homescreen with apologies and questions, twitter feed packed to the brim with 'would you please open the door? and 'answer the phone, zayn' and 'please please please'. a cacophony of digitized letters, intertwining and tangling in his lethargic mind as he struggles to grasp requests before they slip out of his fingers again.
a loud thump echoes through the room, and zayn sits up so quickly that coloured spots dance in the edges of his vision. someone is banging on the door, fists pounding against the wood with such fervour that zayn is afraid it will break. he has to cling to the tiles in the wall to get up, one foot after another like he's walking a tightrope. the shouts behind the door slip through the cracks, distorted and staticky. it feels like the roots are squeezing tighter, and suddenly petals are everywhere- red, red, red.
zee? are you there? please answer me! zayn! open up, zee!
is that harry? he would recognize the voice anywhere, and he tries to pick up his pace but everything looks like it's in an old black and white movie and his body hurts so, so much.
he's falling. bones crack on the linoleum, breath knocked out of him and body limp as the cold seeps in.
he's still. head throbbing, heart pounding, hearing muffled as a bang echoes through the room. red petals spill between his lips like a waterfall, too stark a contrast to the wet, panicked green eyes. too stark a contrast to the darkness enveloping him.
cough
