Chapter Thirty-Two #2
I can’t take it anymore. The dried blood on my hands—Zayn’s blood, the last thing he gave me—seeps into every pore, clinging like guilt I’ll never be rid of.
There’s a stink of death in my hair, under my nails, heavy in every breath.
My skin crawls. I stumble to the bathroom, scrubbing my hands until they’re raw and burning, the water running pink, then red, then clear.
Still, it isn’t enough. I keep seeing Zayn’s blood, keep feeling it sticky and warm, keep hearing the gunshot echoing in my skull, over and over.
The moment he slipped away. Alex follows, his face drawn and pale, and when he lays a hand on my shoulder, it’s the only thing anchoring me to this world.
“He’s gonna be okay, man,” he whispers, voice rough and trembling, almost breaking.
I want to believe him—I want to so badly—but hope is a knife now, sharp and fragile and ready to shatter.
I grip the edge of the sink, fighting down the sobs clawing up my throat.
I can’t fall apart. Not yet. Not when Zayn needs me to be strong.
I whisper the only words I can muster, my voice cracking open, “But what if he’s not, Alex?” The words hang between us, heavy and poisonous, and for a moment it feels like the world is ending all over again.
Back in the lobby, Ayla sits, her face blank and hollow, eyes fixed on nothing.
She looks like she’s already halfway gone.
“Come on,” Alex says, dragging us outside, away from the cameras.
He lights a joint, passes it to me, and the three of us stand in the dark, silent but for the sound of burning paper and shaky breaths.
Nobody says a word. We just inhale, exhale, and wait—suspended in grief and hope, haunted by the what-ifs.
Back inside, Ayla rests her head on my shoulder, Alex on my other side—a fragile island of comfort in a sea of dread.
I lay my head on hers, numb, everything moving in slow motion.
The waiting room is silent but for the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant shuffle of hospital staff.
My eyes burn, but I can’t cry; I’m hollow, scraped out, nothing left but silence and terror.
I hold my breath, praying for a miracle, but dread swallows every hope.
Eventually, exhaustion drags me under, and I drift off against the bone-hard plastic, feeling Alex’s hand squeeze my knee once.
It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m still alive, even when it feels like I shouldn’t be.
The next thing I know, a doctor is standing in the doorway, his white coat too bright, the world snapping back into focus. “Dean DeRose?” he calls, his voice slicing through the hush. My heart lurches, panic spiking as I stumble to my feet. “That’s me.”
He hesitates, his eyes heavy with the kind of empathy that only comes from delivering this news too many times.
“Can you come with me, please?” Alex and Ayla rise too—I can’t do this without them.
At first, the doctor says only family, and I’m the emergency contact on Zayn’s paperwork.
But I insist, and something in my voice must convince him, because he just nods and leads us down a cold, narrow hallway to a tiny consultation room.
The space is suffocating, four walls closing in around a battered table and a handful of hard chairs. I can barely breathe.
The doctor sits across from us, his face grave, hands folded as if that might soften the blow.
His words are careful, practiced, but they hit like a sledgehammer: “We did everything we could. When we opened him up, we saw there was extensive damage to the heart. We did everything we could, but it was too much. He didn’t make it. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The world stops. I can’t breathe. Everything inside me falls apart—the hope, the fear, the denial. It’s all gone. Zayn is gone. My best friend,the love of my life, my family—gone.
I stare at him, uncomprehending. This can’t be real.
This can’t be happening. I wait for someone to laugh, for the world to snap back, for Zayn to walk through the door, grinning, alive, calling me an idiot for worrying.
But then Ayla sobs—a sound so raw and broken it shreds the air—and Alex slams his fist down on the table, tears pouring down his face.
The shock splits open, and my own grief explodes out of me.
I collapse, wailing, the sound animal, guttural, ripped from the deepest part of me.
I can’t breathe. I can’t see. Ayla pulls me close, her arms the only thing holding me together as I break apart, shattering under the weight of losing the best friend I’ve ever had.
I want him back. I want him back. I would give anything.
But he’s gone, and there’s no way to fix it.
“No, he’s not,” I cry, the words tumbling out, part denial, part desperate prayer. “Please, he can’t be.”
But the doctor only repeats, “I’m so sorry for your loss. Someone will be in shortly to talk about next steps…”
His voice drowns out, receding to a meaningless blur. All I can hear is the echo in my head, relentless and merciless: He didn’t make it. He didn’t make it. He didn’t make it.
I sit in that room for what feels like hours, numb and adrift, until someone finally comes in with a stack of paperwork—release forms, funeral home options, things I’m supposed to sign and decide.
It all falls to me. I didn’t know Zayn had done any of the legal paperwork for this.
We talked about it, but I didn't know he actually did it.
I stare at the papers, hands shaking, mind blank.
“Can I have a few days to think about it? How does this even work?” My voice barely carries.
“Of course,” the woman says softly. “We’ll be in touch. I’m so sorry for your loss.” She leaves, shutting the door behind her, and the silence settles in, heavy as stone.
I look at Alex and Ayla, my voice hollow and lost. “What do we do now?” The question hangs in the air, pointless, because there’s no answer, not really. Not when Zayn’s gone. Not when the world feels so empty.
Alex shrugs helplessly. “We go home, I guess.” His voice is tired and uncertain, so unlike him.
We leave the hospital and pile into Zayn’s Jeep, his blood still coating the seat.
Alex drives—my hands are too unsteady, my mind too shattered.
The world outside blurs past the windows, but all I see is Zayn—everywhere, in every memory, in every ache.
His laugh, his stupid jokes, his hand on my shoulder.
When we get home, I stand frozen in the doorway, unable to breathe.
The emptiness presses in until I think I might shatter.
I want to scream. I want to wake up. But this is real, and he’s not coming back.
“Come on,” Ayla whispers, soft but insistent, pulling me by the hand up to Alex’s room.
She lies down in the middle of the bed, and I curl up on her left, clinging to her while we both cry.
A few minutes later, Alex joins us on Ayla’s right.
Alex’s voice is soft, barely audible in the hush.
“Hey, Dean… did Zayn ever say what he wanted? For after?”
I wipe at my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat, and force myself to meet his gaze.
“Yeah. He did. He wanted to be cremated. No service, no funeral, nothing big or public. He always said, ‘If they didn’t care enough to show up when I was alive, they don’t get to mourn me in front of strangers.
’ I have all the paperwork, apparently.”
A heavy silence settles over us. Ayla is the first to break it, her voice gentle but resolute. “Then that’s what we do. We let him go his way.”
We curl tighter together, holding onto each other as the grief swells and recedes, until exhaustion finally drags us under.
For a little while, there’s only the warmth of bodies pressed close, and the memory of Zayn—his laughter, his loyalty, the way he made us all feel safe.
We cling to each other, because even in our devastation, we have each other.
But the ache never fades. Grief is a ghost in the room, and I know I’ll carry the shape of Zayn’s absence with me for the rest of my life.