It started like a dream. You met Zayn at a small private art gallery in London, a quiet place where you could talk without the world watching. He was calm, quietly intense, with an almost magnetic stillness that pulled you in. You were a fashion journalist, used to chaos and deadlines, but with Zayn, time slowed down. The first few months were blissful. You stayed at his place in Pennsylvania on your off weeks, and he’d send you voice notes at night, sometimes singing, sometimes just talking about the stars or the books he was reading. It was deep, personal, like a secret language. But soon everything turned toxic.

He was in the studio more than in your bed for the night. You blew up on him, he’d snap right back at you. But when arguments and heat was covered up with tangled sheets and skin on skin, you woke up one day with an accident. You both raised your daughter even thought you weren’t the same as you were before. You both wanted to be good for your little girl. Put up a united front. But some days that got so hard. Arguing after putting her to bed just to put her to bed again because you both got too loud. Zayn screwing up something you wouldn’t have but you didn’t answer when he needed you. It got tiring. And you knew as your little girl grew up, she would start to catch on too

It was two weeks away from your daughter’s second birthday. You got home late, surprised to see Zayn cooking while your daughter was babbling at the counter. After you both put her to bed you got in the shower. You walked out dressed to see Zayn smoking a cigarette on the balcony. Shirt off, hair messy. Exhausted. You joined him, leaning against the railing until he spoke, exhaling smoke

“We have to stop this.” His voice low, gravelly