It felt like he had barely blinked before he found himself in an entirely new location. The tanned and tattooed boy glanced around, observing his surroundings.

He knew that wherever he was, it felt familiar. Zayn thought that maybe it was somewhere close to his soul that he hadn’t visited in some time. He slowly and cautiously moved his feet, afraid he would be unable to move in ways he was accustomed to, but pleasantly finding that he was able to walk as any other person could.

Zayn didn’t have long to ponder before the door to the room he was in flew open, a woman appearing in the doorway. He could see the silhouettes of a few slightly shorter individuals flanking her from behind. The woman’s hair was crazily ruffled, her skin streaked with what appeared to be tears, and her body trembling as she clutched a strange weapon above her head. Looking more closely at the mystery item, Zayn found that it was a mixer.

He recognized that mixer. The combination of features left him perplexed. Was it possible that the woman in front o him was… his mother?

“Triccia?” he questioned softly, hoping she would keep from advancing on him.

“Who are you, and how did you get in here?” she answered sharply.

Zayn was sure of her identity, now that he had identified her voice and figure. “Mum, it’s me,” he pleaded. “Could you put the mixer back in the kitchen drawer, where it belongs?”

“Don’t be an idiot. How am I supposed to know who you are if you just say ‘it’s me’?” she mimicked terribly, stepping closer to her son.

“Stop it! It’s me, Zayn! Can’t you even recognize my voice anymore, or have I been gone too long? Oh no, I’ve gone and left you for so long you can’t even remember my voice! I’m so sorry, mum, I should’ve come and visited the last time I had the chance. We were just so busy coming off our interviews and getting ready for the tour, well I guess it’s cancelled now, but still-“

Triccia stopped him mid-sentence. “Shut up! Stop pretending to be him; you don’t know him. Oh God, no, not this again,” she muttered, turning so as not to let Zayn see her tears begin to fall.

“What do you mean, stop pretending? And again? Why can’t I see you cry? It’s just me,” Zayn sighed exasperatedly.

Suddenly, his mother whipped around to face him. “No,” she crooked her finger at him angrily. “My son died in a horrid plane crash, on his way to beginning his band’s world tour. The rest of his band mates were with him. You are not he, no matter how well you can impersonate him. Zayn is gone,” she said firmly. “Zayn is gone,” she repeated, softer, as if she was about to break into a fresh round of sobs. “My son, my baby…” his mother murmured.

Zayn was at a loss for words. His own mother didn’t believe that he was really there, talking to her. How was he going to be able to convince his friends? His girlfriend? Everyone else? It was at that moment that Zayn remembered what were likely his sisters, standing behind Triccia.

“Doniya? Waliyha? Safaa?” he called out tentatively.

“Don’t talk to us, you bleeder,” his elder sister hissed. “We’re really not in the state of mind for yet another impersonator of our brother trying to invade our home and lives.”

People were pretending to be Zayn, just so they could get into his house and learn more about his personal life? That was simply cruel. He knew that believing in his death would have taken a toll on his family, and imagining what the cameras must have been attempting to do in his absence was enough to make his blood boil.

“But it’s me, Zayn!” he cried desperately. His sisters and mother simply shook their heads sadly, as if they had lost all faith in him.

”That’s what all the others said,” little nine-year-old Safaa cried. Zayn felt his heart break for his youngest sister, but fear struck into his chest when he noticed his mother brandishing the mixer once again.

“Get out,” she seethed, “before I call the police on you. Scat!”

Before he even realized what he was doing, Zayn found himself standing outside his own front door. How had he gotten there? He distinctly remembered standing in his old room, which had obviously been taken apart, mere seconds ago. Could he really have moved that fast, or blanked out until he was outside?

To test this new theory, Zayn thought of another place he wanted to visit. His dad was less likely to believe in his second chance then his mother and sisters. Even Perrie didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell whether or not he was speaking the truth. Where was there left for him to go?

Zayn was not a selfish boy, and he briefly thought of his four band mates, whom he had last seen in front of the Master of Fate. How were they faring? He hoped immediately that they had better luck than him, since he wouldn’t wish rejection of this sort upon anyone. A quick glance and prayer to the night sky was all he could manage before he returned to thoughts of his own life.

There was only one place Zayn could think of that would calm his frayed emotions and allow him to think in peace, away from the cameras and judging eyes of his family, now ex-girlfriend, and his old friends. Believing that what he had done a few moments ago was a form of teleportation, Zayn decided to skip normal forms of transportation and simply think about his flat in London.

To his not-so-extreme surprise, within blinks he found himself in his regular bedroom, in his comfortable flat. He was overjoyed to have discovered a new skill that his apparent inhuman state had offered him, and happy to have found a way to use it in a controlled manner. Smiling, Zayn closed his eyes and thought of the room he had transformed into an art studio of sorts.

Zayn took a deep, relaxing breath as he felt the soft rug over the hardened floors in his studio. This was a place he had always been able to come when he just needed to think, to let his emotions out in a way where he couldn’t harm the people he cared about. The other boys knew about his little hideaway but never bothered to ask, knowing it was personal.

He snatched a pen from the large set against the wall, pulling out a clean sheet of paper and placing it on a dark desk. Setting his arm to rest on the edge of the platform, he let his hand begin to move as his subconscious told his hand what to picture. Slowly, an image took form.

It was of his family. As Zayn saw it emerging, he struggled to hide it, but his hand and a part of his mind fought against the rest of him. He was forced to watch as an articulate portrait of everyone he loved who he knew would no longer accept the truth was drawn.

When it was complete, he jerked his hand from the paper, afraid of what else he could accidentally draw. He stared down at the paper, tears beginning to trickle from the corners of his eyes as he remembered all the little memories he had taken for granted that he would give anything to go back to. If only he could turn back time, if only he could have been more gracious, if only, if only.

Zayn knew he needed to envision something happier and more upbeat, so he could focus on drawing that before he drove himself insane. He thought for a moment, grimacing at some of the nastier images his brain conjured before deciding to let his hand roam free once more, but not to let his family invade his subconscious.

The form of a girl took shape. Two eyes, long hair, a cute nose, and a wide mouth twisted into a light smile. Her slim, fit, tanned body just shorter than his, the intriguing look buried beneath her eyes as if waiting to be discovered. Her hands were small but strong, her legs well built and toned. He reached for some colors, the girl’s eyes becoming a sweet hazel while her clothes materialized into boots, jeans, and a checked top. Her hair was swept into a long braid, little pieces escaping and cascading across her shoulder blades.

It was a beautiful girl, and Zayn felt something in the pit of his stomach tightening as he finished this second image. He felt as if it was calling to him, as if the girl was asking him to free her, to hold her and show her what it meant to be loved wholeheartedly. But Zayn didn’t have a clue that she was.

There was always the possibility that it was a fan. It could be someone he had seen chasing after him, or just in passing in the street. Someone who had never seemed significant enough to memorize until now. The position in which he had drawn her showcased her inner beauty, and Zayn found a hint of strength returning to him.

Fate had decided he was to lose everything. He imagined Fate was laughing at him, watching him from above as he choked on his words and struggled to let his pen sweep across the paper. But he felt it was time to show Fate that he could take control into his own hands, and he could find that anchor and keep his life worth living.

Zayn had to find that girl.