The first week was strange for the both of them. It was weird waking up in a new place and forgetting where the bathroom was a couple of times. He liked the unfamiliarity of it all. He loved the feeling of getting adjusted and really always had. She, on the other hand, got annoyed when she forgot which drawer held the spoons or that the light switch was on the right.
Of course, she forgot about those petty little things after a while because the place was lovely and so was Zayn.
They hadn't gone sightseeing yet because he knew that she felt much too out of place the last time. She was grateful that he hadn't asked because she didn't want to let him down.
"I wouldn't breathe if you didn't want me to," he kept reminding her and she had to pretend like it warmed her heart.
She wanted him to leave her and find a normal girl, not because she didn't love because, oh god, of course she did. He was just too beautiful and caring and loving and majestic for someone like her. Sometimes she wondered when he would figure it all out, that he could do a million times better than her.
So they stayed inside, him leaving to get food or some cold medicine that she took to go sleep. He was more than happy to go out and retrieve the necessities, but it hurt him to see her staying inside the apartment all the time.
Since they didn't have any friends other than each other, they read each other poetry all day. Neither of them knew the titles or authors of the poems, but they knew the words and that was enough for them. They would occasionally listen to records too, mainly just Elvis Presley since it was her favorite.
His mum called daily and it didn't annoy him at all. She asked to talk to Caroline each time she rang him, but he knew that she wouldn't want to talk. It wasn't because she didn't like his mother, because she did, she just got really nervous around her, like if she said the wrong thing she'd be shunned. His mother would never do that. C'mon, if she could put up with him and his antics for twenty-two years, she could put up with anyone.
"She's in the shower," was always his excuse and his mum accepted it with a sigh.
She would thank him for understanding that sometimes she just couldn't talk to anyone and he would smile and twist the ends of her hair. He loved her and would show her that because he didn't care who she talked to as long as she talked to him.
They were just a mess of limbs and fuzzy blankets with poetry books and empty takeout boxes most of the time, which neither of them really minded. She felt soothed by his soft skin pressed against hers and she didn't feel like her world was caving in. He just wished that his touch would make her body stop shaking and he hoped that every sweet nothing that he whispered into her ear would save her from her thoughts that seemed to trap her inside her own mind.
