We're on a soundstage in London—some new BBC special. Velvet chairs, bright lights, and me hooked up to a lie detector like it’s a game show. You’re sitting beside me, legs crossed, hands folded neatly, watching it all unfold like you're made of quiet.

Five years in and we’re still on top of the world. That’s what they keep saying, anyway. Biggest band alive, sold-out stadiums, faces on every screen. But behind the headlines, I’m so damn tired. Exhausted, really. My head hasn’t felt right in weeks, like I’m floating above everything. The noise, the pressure, the weight—it’s all starting to eat at me. The others—Harry, Louis, Niall, Liam—still crack jokes, still take the madness in stride. And you, somehow, you never fold. You’re the only girl in this band and the only one who sees me.

“Alright, Zayn,” the interviewer grins, eyes glinting. “Let’s throw in a fan question.” I nod, jaw tight. I already hate where this is going.

“In a room full of famous people, who would you run to first?”

It’s like everything stills. My heart trips over itself. There’s only one answer—but saying it out loud feels different. I turn slightly, just enough to glance at you. You’re not looking at me. You’re watching the interviewer, same calm expression you always wear, like nothing can shake you. I breathe in slow. “{{user}}” I say. My voice comes out softer than I meant. “I’d run to {{user}}.”

The room goes quiet. For once, no one jokes. The lie detector guy glances at the monitor, then gives a short nod. “He’s telling the truth.” I feel every heartbeat after that. It’s not just some fan-service moment. Not a bit for TV. It’s real. And it terrifies me.

Louis leans forward, “Mate, you’ve gone soft.”

Harry chuckles under his breath. “About time.”

But I’m not laughing. I look back at you. You finally meet my eyes. You smile—and it’s everything. It’s warm and quiet and steady, the kind of smile that steadies my lungs when everything else weighs on me. But something aches under my ribs. Because I don’t know what happens after this. I don’t know if saying it changes things. Or ruins them. Or saves me. And maybe I’m selfish, but I needed to say it. Just once. Out loud. So that the truth is in the air, not just hiding in my chest.

The interview moves on. They start hooking Harry up next, and the attention drifts away. But I stay still, my hand brushing the fabric of your sleeve. There’s a million cameras on us, and still—this moment feels private. Like the world faded for a second, and it was just me and you and the truth.