Chapter 3-
Zayn -
"You've been acting weird, man."
Noah swings his bag over his shoulder, walking beside me like we're synced by invisible string. His hoodie's half-zipped, and he's carrying a half-eaten protein bar like it's holding him together emotionally.
"I'm not weird," I mutter. "I'm just tired."
Not a lie butnot the full truth.
"Tired doesn't make you draw the same floor plan upside down and then defend it like it's intentional," he says, grinning.
"Come on. What's going on with you?"
I shrug. The sidewalk beneath us is cracked and dusty, kind of like my mental state.
"Maybe I'm just burnt out."
"Dude, you're Zayn " Noah says, shaking his head.
"You're the golden boy. You design like you're flirting with concrete. Don't tell me burnout finally got you."
I smirk, mostly to shut him up. "Maybe I'm human after all."
"You say that," he replies, "but the Zayn I know doesn't fumble tension calculations, ignore the group chat for days, and then show up looking like he hasn't slept since midterms."
Oof.
Hit a nerve with that one.
"Can we just focus on this project tonight?" I mutter. "I'll pull it together."
He glances at me but lets it go.
"Alright. Just don't cry into my rendering software. My laptop's too fragile for your poetic breakdowns."
We both laugh, and for a second it's normal. Two architecture students heading to a late-night study grind, bantering like we're fine.
But then we reach his apartment. He fumbles his key before opening the door
And there she is ....
She's curled up on the carpet near the low table, laptop open, oversized sweater half-swallowed by a warm blanket Barefoot, socks mismatched one has tiny moons on it.
The light from the standing lamp halos around her like it was made for her skin tone.
She looks up when we enter, and her eyes find mine with terrifying accuracy.
For a second, I forget how doors work.
Noah kicks his shoes off.
"You remember her, right? From my poetry class? I've been friends since the first year."
"Yeah," I say too fast. "I've seen you... around."
She tilts her head, assessing.
"Library boy."
That again. The nickname's annoying mostly because I kind of like it. I smirk.
"Poetry girl."
Her eyes crinkle, amused. And it's a problem. Because now I want to make her laugh again. I want her eyes to crinkle because of me, not some inside joke she's keeping between them.
We set up around the coffee table. Laptops open. Papers spread. She stays on Noah's side knee touching his.... Shoulder brushing. They flip through a poetry anthology like they've done it a hundred times.
And I hate it.
Not because I have any right to.But because I'm watching someone I don't get to have.
I'm not listening to Noah talk about beam load anymore. I'm too busy tracking the way she nods when he explains something. How her fingers curl around the edge of his sketchbook. How she laughs softly
"So, do you live together?"I ask without thinking
"No ,she drops by. Sometimes Noah answers before she could
"I live nearby,"she smiles, focusing back on her book
My stomach twists, not with anger
but with that ugly feeling that comes when you want something unspoken. Something you weren't supposed to want.
She glances at me. Brief. Barely.
But enough.
Enough to set my pulse spiralling.
Enough to make me wonder if she knows what she's doing.
Or worse ,if she doesn't, and I'm just some ghost to her.
"You good?" Noah asks, frowning.
"Yeah," I say....Total lie.
I walked into this apartment thinking I'd finally get back on track.
Instead, I'm unravelling slowly, messily because the girl from the poetry aisle, the one I wasn't supposed to notice, is now right here.
And I can't stop noticing her, and neither can i stop feeling like she doesn't notice me back..