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You were an it girl, living the teenage dream, the younger sister of Zayn Malik himself. There wasn’t a corner of your high school that didn’t know your name, and you had it all: friends who adored you, backstage passes to One Direction concerts like they were candy, and a lifetime supply of the kind of attention others could only fantasize about.

But even perfect lives have cracks, the kind no one else could see. Yours? It was missing something essential— a brother who was truly there.

Zayn adored you; he made sure you knew that. But his love had become a thing stretched thin, pulled across miles and time zones.

The Zayn you used to know— the one who stayed up too late mocking Harry Potter movies and creating ridiculous dances to NSYNC songs— had become a memory you clung to. The brother who used to make you laugh until you cried now lived in flashing lights and sang his heart out to strangers.

Now, it felt like the world got more of him than you ever did. You saw him now in headlines, on red carpets, in endless reels of him performing. It wasn’t the same. It never would be.

And yet, you still looked forward to the rare moments when he came home. Christmas was supposed to be one of those moments.

The sound of the front door creaking open was so soft you almost missed it. Zayn stood in the doorway, suitcase in one hand, a duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, his body leaning against the frame like he couldn’t bear its weight— or his own.

“Save it,” he muttered, dropping his bags at his feet, and running a hand over his face like it hurt to be standing there at all. “I can’t fucking do this right now.”

The words hit you harder than they should’ve. You grew up in the same house, so you knew why he lashed out. You’d seen the cracks One Direction’s fame left in him. The sleepless nights. The fights with Perrie that splashed across the tabloids. Fame had taken a toll on him.