"Oh damn it," Zayn cursed as a football player from the team he clearly liked less kicked through the pitch and then scored a goal. Zayn pressed the pillow against his face so he could grumble into it. I grumbled along with him a little.

But to be honest, I had no idea about soccer. I knew there were twenty-two players, plus some more on the bench, and that there was a goal on each side. But why on earth were they constantly pushing each other? And why were they so good at distracting us from writing my note?

"That's interesting", I continued to distract ourselves.

I didn't have to look at him to register Zayn turning to me. "Harry, I need your full concentration over here", oh no, "if it keeps going like this, I won't get any points on my bet, and then I'm gonna be really pissed off, and then you will have no more beer at all," phew. He sounded stressed and drunk at the same time, making me turn to him as well. His hair was no longer on his forehead but was sticking out in all directions and there was a trace of beer running down his lower lip. "I hate to break it to you, but today is not the day for any more bad drunk ideas", I took the uncapped bottle of beer from his hand, "because you'll be sleeping here tonight." Now Zayn was confused, "When did I say I wanted to sleep here?" and defiant. "You didn't. But you're kinda wasted, it's midwinter and - please don't ask me why - you're here on your bike. Oh no, no, I don't want to get rid of you yet."

His arms wrapped themselves around my neck. Zayn hugged me tightly. The weight of him pressed me against the couch and the edge of it dug into my back. I tried to stretch my body a bit, partly to watch the football players racing across my laptop screen. Incidentally, I patted Zayn's shoulder. And then - Zayn's favourite player, I didn't know what his name was - threw his legs in front of the player in ball possession, skillfully took the ball from him and fired a corner into the opponent's goal.

I made a quick check to make sure it was actually the right team and then I cheered: "Woohoo!" And when Zayn gave no reaction, I cheered up again. "Hey buddy, have a look! Your bet isn't lost after all!" But instead of joining in, Zayn just continued to cling around my neck. I cautiously freed my arm from his embrace, lifted my hand over his head and carefully brushed his hair back. Zayn's eyes were closed, his nostrils were twitching slightly and now that I was looking at them, I could hear them snoring.

Somewhat awkwardly, I tried to wriggle out from under him. He grumbled, he smacked his lips and I rolled my eyes. It took me quite a while, but I finally managed to put him down on the couch with his upper body. His legs were dangling against the floor. I quickly cleared away the beer bottles standing nearby (I pushed them into the nearest corner). As I walked back, I stopped in front of the still unwritten notepad in front of my feet. And then I walked past it.

I spent the following thirty minutes dragging Zayn's legs onto the couch, trying to somehow angle them so that they would fit and that he wasn't completely uncomfortable. Meanwhile, I picked up the cushion from the floor. I roughly patted it out and then shoved it under Zayn's head, cold side up. Eventually, I moved my blanket from my bed over his body. Just in case he became unwell, I placed my empty cleaning bucket and a glass of water underneath where his head was lying.

Right when I was about towards my own bed, Zayn decided to stretch his arm over his head. The blanket slipped halfway off him. My eyes fell directly on the area of his skin where neither his socks nor his trousers were covering it. He and I both knew exactly how he always felt cold around the ankles so quickly. Therefore, I sighed, grabbed the corners of the blanket and tacked them firmly into the gap of my couch.

Zayn was now wrapped up like in a cocoon and I was extremely happy with that. That was until my eyes fell to the floor again. And with that, onto the piece of paper, which was lying in front of me looking just as insignificant as before. But it wasn't supposed to be insignificant. This piece of paper was for Gemma and Gemma was incredibly significant to me. Why did something so simple have to feel this complicated, I wondered to myself.

Confidently, I shook my head. The paper wasn't even the problem. And (the words probably) weren't either. The problem was that I'd rather watch a drunk Zayn sleep than to sort out my thoughts and that was stupid. I didn't like the way realizing made me feel. My guilty conscience creeped through my chest, gripping my heart in an unrelenting hold. Just what a baby blue thread must feel like.

With the note in my hands and my eyes on the gypsophila-lily-bunch, I sat down on the small spot where Zayn's legs were bent. Thanks for all the help, mate," I whispered sarcastically. Then I realised that I didn't have a pen, turned my flat upside down and sat down once again. To get fully concentrated, I drew my eyebrows together and mumbled a bit to myself.

"I can't believe you're getting married before me. You are clearly doing your best to be the better Styles ... and that is how you definitely should not start a wedding note, Harry."

"I'm so proud of you. Watching you find your happily ever after is ... incredibly cliche, Harry."

I grunted, I started biting on the edge of my pen. That was just a thing that I always did when I didn't know how else to occupy my body. During some point in time, I started to twist the plug between my teeth until they ached and pounded. Eventually, the pen dropped from my mouth. And then, in the grip of my hand, it actually wrote down a few little words. 

image created by AI <3