Scars (Ziam)

Ease/Unease

So... it has been a minute!

I am so incredibly sorry for how long it has taken me to update! If anyone is still here and still reading, you are a fucking gem, and I love you endlessly!

Warning for this chapter: There are mentions of depression, suicidal tendencies, depictions/mentions of bipolar disorder, expressions of grief, pain, and other intense emotions, and bittersweet memories. Please read carefully and know that I am always here to talk.

This is a big and important chapter, and I really hope you all enjoy it because my mind felt a bit fuzzy and unclear while trying to write, but here it is!

Let me know your thoughts! ❤

Chapter 40:

    "Did you want anymore of the chicken, Liam?" Zayn's mum asked for the third time. She was the type of woman who was constantly checking other people's plates, making sure they had their fill before she ever sat down to eat her own food. And she was more than happy to tend to everyone. She reminded me of my mum... before....

   We were all at Zayn's home, sitting around his dinner table. His family seemed at ease as they ate and talked to one another. There was a teasing air around the table, and I was satisfied with just sitting silently and observing, but his family seemed particularly interested in trying to get me to speak.

   "No, ma'am. I'm fine," I responded, making her smile and roll her eyes.

  "Please, Liam, I'm not that old, am I? Just call me Trisha." She offered me a smile, and I lowered my head, eyes cast down at the table. At the action, Zayn's hand fell over my own on my lap, and he leaned closer to me.

  "They don't care about the scars, Liam. You don't have to hide them. You're lovely," He whispered to me, and it was a terrifying thing to do, but I lifted my head back up and saw his mum looking between us with a smile that she tried to hide behind her manicured nails.

   "So, Liam," Zayn's dad began. He wasn't a very talkative man, but it was obvious that he was quite happy and content with his life. He seemed to love his family, and he enjoyed teasing his wife in a loving manner. "Zayn mentioned that you write. Do you write stories?"

   "Um, m-mainly poems," I admitted. "And they're not very--"

   "They're amazing," Zayn interrupted me. There was a glance sent my way, and he shook his head. "You were going to sell yourself short, but that isn't true. His poems are incredible. They make a person feel," He described to his parents. His sisters were all listening in, but they were focusing on eating the food on their plates. I was thankful that I wasn't being interrogated on all fronts.

    "Oh, perhaps we can hear one?" His mum asked, staring at me with hopeful eyes. And there was a sudden panic building in my chest at the thought of reading our my tragedies to his family. Because what a great first impression all of my trauma would make.

   "I- I don't... I can't--" I tried to explain. My hands began to tremble where they rested on my thighs, and I balled up my hands, fingernails pressing into my palms. And then, Zayn was there again.

  "It's sensitive material," He explained for me. "It's stuff that's not easy for him to read. Like those paintings I refused to show you all."

   Zayn had paintings that he didn't show his family? Did he show them to anyone at all? Have I seen them or were they too deep and personal to show... like some of my poems?

   "That's perfectly fine," His mum assured me with a smile. "When you have an artist in the family, things like that make sense." She winked at me casually, and I decided in that moment that I quite liked Zayn's mum. In fact, all of his family was wonderful in their own ways.