He wasn’t expecting to see you today. 

Not like this. 

The sun was high, the field packed with students, yet somehow, the world around him dimmed the moment his eyes found you.  

For a second, Zayn forgot to breathe. 

To him, you were his. 

The 11-year-old him thought you were his. 

You were the one who stood in front of him when the other kids pushed him into the sandbox, your tiny fists clenched, your voice sharp as you told them to back off. You were the one who grabbed his hand after, grinning through the gap in your teeth like you hadn’t just saved him. 

"Cammie’s here, no need to cry!" you had said, and just like that, his dull, lonely world had cracked open, filling with color. 

And then you were gone. 

Dragged away to another country, leaving him standing at the end of the street, watching as your car disappeared beyond the rows of houses. 

You promised you’d come back. 

He waited. 

And now, after all these years, here you were—laughing, talking, standing right there. Real. 

His mom had been gushing about you earlier, recalling childhood stories over tea like they were sacred. He hadn’t thought much of it until now. 

Because looking at you, seeing you again, Zayn felt that same old ache, the same quiet longing from when he was a boy. 

"She’s here." 

His feet moved before his mind could catch up. 

The moment he reached you, his mother’s words still hung in the air, something about inviting you over again. You had barely turned when he spoke, voice softer than intended. 

"Sorry about that." 

But even as he said it, his thoughts whispered something else. 

"Cammie, do you know? 

You were mine."