“I can’t do this anymore. I fucking can’t.” “Can’t do what, Pen?” Zayn asks, crowding me. He forces me backwards until my back hits the wall. “I’m not letting this go,” he says emphatically, grasping my head in his hands. His gaze searches mine like he’s trying to uncover all my secrets with that one look. I can smell his expensive aftershave overshadowed a little by the metallic scent of blood and two days of wearing the same clothes. I don’t hate it. I don’t hate him. How can I when I still love him despite it all? “Fuck, Pen. Just talk to me. Give me something at least. Make me understand.”
