You had me at hello - a Zayn Malik fan fiction (not famous)

19 years old Irene has a normal boring life in Italy, until the day she leaves for the U.K. with her best friend Alice. There, she meets Zayn, the most beautiful boy she has ever seen.
Love, friendship, jealousy and drama mess up Irene's new life, giving her the chance to find what she has been looking for.


30. Freckels

“What do you want to eat tonight?” Alice asks me looking at her computer.

“Don’t know…noodles?” I answer distractedly, while I’m channel surfing, laid on the couch. This is pretty much what I’ve being doing for the last three days, after that night at the pub. Television, computer, sofa, food, like a proper loser. I just went out yesterday morning, for a shift at the bakery with Harry. And that’s it.

“Ok, noodles are fine. Do I need to call the delivery service or you wanna go out and take it?”.

Alice’s maybe exaggerated kindness is due to the fact that she knows how bad I’m feeling lately, and I appreciate her effort to make me feel better. That’s why I’ve always loved her so much.

“I’ll go out.” I say lifting my head from my phone. “I have to.”

The fact is, I’ve just received a text from Zayn’s mom. She wants to meet me, because she still owes me the “salaries” for the last days of work. And she just texted me to meet her at her house in an hour. Needless to say, my biggest fear is to bump into Zayn. Because I think the mix of anger and depression I’m currently feeling is what led to many of the most savage murders in history.

I get up and get ready, psychologically, more importantly. I look myself in the mirror, breathing in and out, trying not to agitate. “I love the color of your hair..” I can almost hear his voice while I brush my locks, and my eyes get wet. “You’re just…Irene!”.

I wipe the tears away from my cheeks (crying a lot lately Irene, huh?), and head outside. I walk fast, trying not to think too much. I reach the house, I pass through the front yard, I climb the stairs and place in front of the door, without even breathing, without thinking. My heart is racing while I press the doorbell and wait. As the seconds pass, I’m almost feeling sick. I hope this torture will be over soon.

Then, the door opens and Zayn’s mom appears with a bright smile on her face. “Hi honey, come in.”.

I follow her inside. The atmosphere of the house brings back many painful memories.

“Ok, I prepared the money, it’s upstairs. Wanna come with me? We can have a cup of the on the balcony upstairs!” she suggests.

I nod and smile in agreement. I’m relaxing a bit, Zayn doesn’t seem to be around. And this makes me feel better and breaks my heart at the same time.

We walk up the stairs, and reach the upper floor. On my right I glimpse at Zayn’s bedroom’s door, which is slightly opened; that makes me think that Zayn actually isn’t home.

“Wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.”

No, Irene, don’t do that. As soon as I’m left alone, I feel the urge to get in his room. I don’t even know why. I want to spy him, I feel the masochist need to see his stuff again, to stare at the bed where I spent the best night of my life, to smell the sheets and die inside again.

I step in silently, making sure that mrs. Malik is not able to see me. I glance around: those walls, those shelves, those family pictures, those weird sketches he made. Everything is just like I remember it. I notice one of Zayn’s shorts placed on the chair, and the thought of him taking it off before taking a shower or getting ready for bedtime gives me the creeps.

Don’t cry, Irene, don’t do that. I’m already heading outside, when I notice some papers on the dresser next to the door. I take them and try to understand what’s written on them. It seems to be Zayn’s handwriting. They look like song lyrics. Silly, ridiculous, sweet. He must have written them when he was much younger – it’s still pretty surprising, and charming. One of the papers catches my attention: it seems to be quite recent.

Your hand fits in mine 
Like it's made just for me 
But bear this in mind 
It was meant to be 
And I'm joining up the dots 
With the freckles on your cheeks 

I hear some steps approaching and quickly throw the papers back on the dresser, getting out of the room and putting on my best poker face.


When I get home, Louis and Alice’s laughs welcome me. I enter without even glimpsing at them and shove myself onto the sofa. My friends come from the kitchen staring at me quizzically. “Irene, are you ok?” Louis asks scratching his chin.

“Lou, did you know that Zayn writes song lyrics?”

For the first time (and I can bet is gonna be the last) I see Louis speechless.

“Ye-yeah…he does that, sometimes. We talked about it. We bought love music.”

I nod, still gazing into space, motionless. I get up and walk past my friends, leaving them confused and shocked. I rush into the bathroom and place myself in front of the mirror. I stay there, like a ghost; all I can do is staring at the freckles on my cheeks. 

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