Paranoia (Zayn Malik) (editing)

Chapter 5: Living With Stangers

LUNA

I never sleep well, but last night was worse than most. I've never thought of my room as comforting, but at least it's the devil I know. The bed in this room, my new room, is comfortable, the mattress is expensive, but it is too alien to allow rest and the ceiling and I become well acquainted on my first night.

I'm not even sure how to start my day. I awkwardly stand in the bathroom, staring at myself staring back at me in the mirror and come to realise I have no fucking clue what I am doing here. I let my muscles repeat old habits, I brush my teeth, wash my face and tie up my hair until a high-ponytail that tickles my ears as I walk. I change into a pair of black legging and a white t-shirt provided for me - he got the size right – and I proceed to sit like a lemon on the edge of my bed. After twenty minutes of this, I realise I can't stay in this room all day, waiting for it to dematerialise, melt away and reveal I am delirious, insane and fanciful, but home.

I gather the courage to make my way downstairs, still sporting my fluffy socks from yesterday to stop the cold tile flooring chilling my feet. I stare at the identical black doors and try to suss the kitchen. Upon closer inspection, I learn the double doors lead to a living room, grand and large, the single left hand door leads to a toilet. The right hand door, however leads me to where I want to go.

The man sits at the white marble kitchen island, face buried in a book with no cover. As elusive as him. When I enter, he looks up, and while he doesn't look inviting, he certainly isn't as intimidating in the light of day. He looks young, a boyish charm to him despite his growing beard.

"Morning." He says simply "You're up early."

For the first time in a long time, I chortle. This man doesn't know I've been on the sleep schedule of a mother with a new-born baby since I was thirteen.

"Yeah." I nod, my smile not quite having dissipated "I guess."

We share a look, one that says neither of us are well-versed in small talk. Still, we try.

"Sleep OK?" He asks, and I don't think he cares about the answer, he is looking at me like a wild animal he is trying to convince he isn't dangerous.

"Yeah." I lie.

"You're a bad liar." He half-smiles "You look tired."

I always look tired; I always am tired. He's also right, I am a bad liar.

"Yeah, well, I'm too tired to lie convincingly." I shrug, stepping further into the kitchen to explore it.

Cabinets line the entire left wall, with some mounted to the wall and others to the floor. They follow the white and black theme, with glass allowing me to see the stacks of expensive plates and wine glasses lined up like the house is ready for exhibition.

I can feel him watching me, studying me as if I will begin to make sense to him with just one look. I return his gaze but find every time we meet eyes my brain feels like its throbbing.

"I'd have expected you to ask more questions by now." He leans forward on his stool, resting his forearms on the island in front of him.

"I don't know what to ask." I huff "I mean are you even going to tell me? Why I'm here."

"To keep you safe."

"Exactly. That's a non-answer."

"I can't tell you everything, not yet."

"Which is why I didn't bother asking."

His lip gets trapped between his teeth and he frowns. I don't know if he's disappointed by me, I don't care.