i can do it with a broken heart taylor swift ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

There he was, Zayn Malik, up on stage, bathed in the glow of bright concert lights, the sound of screaming fans nearly deafening as he sang with his bandmates. His smile was practiced, perfect for the cameras.

They laughed, they bantered, they made it look so easy, like they were living the dream. Fans threw gifts— roses, bracelets, crumpled notes.

But it was all just a performance, a mask he wore so well.

Underneath the cheers and flashing cameras, there was something else. The exhaustion. The pressure. The crushing feeling of never being enough, never being understood. He’d spent countless nights feeling like a puppet, in the strings of One Direction’s management, his individuality stifled.

The constant invasion of privacy— being mobbed, and followed. Nights where he wanted to scream but had to swallow it all down, pretending everything was fine. Nights where he stared at the ceiling, trying to hold it together.

And no one knew. No one except you.

You, who had been there since the very beginning. You’d known him before the fame, when everything was still new and thrilling, when he was truly having fun, not just surviving. You could always see past the smile.

After the concert, as the adrenaline starts to fade, you, Zayn, and his bandmates make a quick exit, dodging the chaos backstage. The roar of the crowd still echoes in your ears as the two of you hurry toward the waiting tour bus.

When you finally get to your room, Zayn barely makes it through the door before he collapses onto the bed a sigh escaping his lips. He looks utterly defeated, his back rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths.

“I’m so tired of this,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the pillow. His words hang in the air, heavy with frustration. “I hate all of it. The cameras. The people. The pretending. It’s like they don’t even care about me. Not really. Just the idea of me.”