????????. | Z.M

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First day of School.
This is my element. The low hum of academia, the crisp autumn air that sharpens every thought, every breath. I leave the dorm quarters and onto the campus grounds, the aged stone pathways familiar beneath my feet. I feel the weight of the years—three already—pressing against my chest. Senior year. Time to make it count.

I push open the library door, and the familiar scent of old leather and musty paper welcomes me. It's always been my refuge, a place where the world feels quieter, where I can hide away in the thick silence between the pages of a book. I head straight for the back study room—the best one, farthest from the buzz of the main area.

But as soon as I reach the doorway, I freeze.
There he is.
The very last person I wanted to see today.

Zayn Malik.

I scoff under my breath as his eyes slide over me, up and down, lingering far too long. His grin is like a cruel whisper in the dark.

"Isabel Grey." His voice is teasing, his accent cutting through the quiet like a blade. His eyes glint with something I can't quite name.

I roll my eyes, already feeling the familiar rush of irritation. "Zach."

A low, mocking laugh escapes him. "It's Zayn... and you know that very well" he corrects. "I thought your scholarship wouldn't bring you back to this place. Guess I was wrong."

My blood boils, the heat rising in my cheeks as I hold onto the straps of my bag, the leather digging into my palms. "Shut up. You're just here because your granddaddy founded the damn school," I mutter, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them.

Zayn's smirk widens as he rises from his seat, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring the moment. He steps toward me with that same unsettling ease, his footsteps soundless against the ancient stone floor. He stops just a breath away, too close. Two feet, but it feels like an ocean of distance between us. There standing to his full height, casting a shadow over me. He's taller than I remember.

"Bet we've got the same schedule this year," he says, his voice quieter now, as though he's daring me to challenge him.

I feel my stomach churn. "Rather die." The words are raw, edged with a bitterness that's taken root over the years.

"I know." Zayn's smile deepens, almost predatory. He knows exactly how to push my buttons.

I fold my arms tightly across my chest, trying to build the wall back up between us, but it's already cracked.

"See you around, Grey." He moves around me with deliberate grace, brushing so close that I can almost taste the warmth of his presence. It lingers in the air, thick and suffocating. I glance around the dimly lit study room, the flickering light from the ancient lamps casting long shadows. That's when I spot his bag.

"Zayn," I call, my voice cutting through the stillness. It's deliberate—loud enough for him to hear, but not so much as to suggest urgency. I turn slowly, watching him out of the corner of my eye. "Your bag."

I walk to the back table, fingertips brushing the worn leather of his satchel, taking it without hesitation.

"Where is my sketchbook?" The words hang in the air like a challenge, and I don't bother to mask the tension coiling in my chest.

Zayn's fingers close around the bag, his grip tightening as his gaze darts over the contents. A flicker of panic flashes across his face before he rips it from my hands, rummaging through it with an almost frantic energy.

"I'm not playing games," he mutters, but I see the desperation in his eyes, the way his breath comes just a bit too fast.

"I dunno. I just—"

A loud bang echoes through the study room, rattling the dusty shelves. Zayn and I both jump, eyes darting toward the source, but there's nothing. The air feels thick with something unspoken.

"Stop fucking around," Zayn mutters, irritation lacing his voice, though I can hear the unease beneath it, like he is just as scared as me but doesn't want to admit it.

"I'm not doing anything," I reply, my arms folding across my chest. The words come out sharper than I intended.

My gaze drifts over the room, the ancient books lining the shelves seeming to watch me, their cracked spines a silent reminder of everything this place holds—secrets, knowledge, and perhaps something darker. A shiver runs down my spine.

"Where's my sketchbook?" He ask again, unable to mask the unease creeping into his tone.

I frowns, my brow furrowing. "Maybe you left it at your dorm." I shrug, his eyes flicker away from mine.

I stop, suddenly aware of how long this conversation has stretched without the usual biting remarks or pointed barbs. Just two people, trying to figure something out—or maybe just pretending to.

"I had it with me, Isabel. I'm not an idiot," he snaps, the words cutting through the tension like a blade. He rolls his eyes and stalks off, leaving me behind in the thick silence, the absence of him echoing louder than his presence ever did.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, steadying my breath.

Nobody gets it.

Years and years of being the shadow, always a step behind him. Always trying—always failing—to be something more, and yet, I'm always second. Second to Zayn fucking Malik, the golden boy, the legacy. No matter what I do, I'll always be chasing his ghost.

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