“Pen, there are things I need to say, and you need to listen,” Zayn demands, his words firm and unyielding even when he steps backwards, away from my pain like the coward that he is. Where’s his apology now? Where’s the sorrow in his gaze, the fucking empathy? I look into his pitch-black eyes and seethe when I see nothing but a fierce determination to hurt me even more. He’d get the same look in his eye when we were kids, when he was pissed off at something and wanted to vent, to hurt those closest to him because he knew we’d love him anyway. Today, I’m not feeling so generous. “Just stop a
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