Zayn Hale stood in the middle of his bedroom, the phone still warm in his palm even though the call had ended. The screen had gone black, but Damian's last word kept looping in his head like a bad song he couldn't turn off. The room felt too small, and it felt like everything was spinning.
He didn't know what to feel. Anger? Yeah. It was there, hot and sharp in his chest. Sadness? That was there too, heavy as wet concrete in his gut. Regret? Guilt? Love so big it made his ribs ache? All of it. All at once. A storm he had no name for.
