The Boy Who Knew
He hangs around the mini-mart like he owns it, all lazy confidence and knowing smiles. And I'm pretty sure he knows I'm half-obsessed. It started with a simple trip for milk, but now it's a ritual: me, the mini-mart, and the boy who's about to beautifully ruin me.
I stood outside the mini-mart, the familiar neon sign buzzing overhead, a low hum that always seemed to amplify the frantic beat of my own heart. Sifa was beside me, humming tunelessly, completely unaware of the internal panic attack I was having. This wasn't just a trip for passion fruit yogurt anymore.
This was a test. A challenge. A potential disaster.
Because inside, leaning against the fridge like he owned the chipped linoleum floor, was him. Zayn.
