Zayn's POV: "It's inevitable everything that's good comes to an end"

Bags packed. Flight booked. Car ready to take me to the airport and a pocket full of songs I've written and actually like. No more tours, being chased by screaming fans, locked in hotels, micromanaged by management, singing songs I don't give a shit about, being subjected to hours of interviews that ask the same five ridiculous questions over and over again, or getting rejected because my ideas don't "fit the band." In a couple hours, maybe sooner, I'll be free. Just have to tell them.

"It won't be a long conversation," I think as I walk toward the manager's office.

I'm the last to arrive, and I sit down at in the farthest chair. No one acknowledges me. Niall's, the naïve little bastard, is prattling on about what he wants to do at the next tour stop. God, I hope he never tries to go solo. The industry will eat him alive. I don't care how much the Americans like his accent. Next to him, Liam is half-listening. The rest of his attention is on Louis and Harry, who are losing their goddamn minds in some kind of thumb wrestling match. If they were normal blokes and just sat and waited quietly, they'd hear me sigh. But they're not, so they don't. They're screaming and flailing, and they're about as mature as the 12-year-olds who come to our concerts.

"Well, their concerts now," I think and smirk to myself.

Finally, our manager comes in and leans against the doorframe.

"What's the bloody hell is going on?" he barks over chaos. Everyone, thankfully, shuts up, and I think they notice me for the first time since I got here. We haven't been on great terms lately—not that we've ever been. I know I'm supposed to be the fucking "mysterious" one, but they never made of an effort to figure me out. Well, consider this one mystery solve.

"Just ready for our weekly band meeting, boss!" Liam chirps. Liam was smooth, I'd give him that. About the only one of them with half a head on his shoulders.

Our manager only growls in response. God, I won't miss him.

"Let's get started then," he grumbles. "First, try to keep your hands off of each other this week. Water fights, shaving cream—Styles still isn't over the whole pants-ing incident!"

"It's fine—" Harry cuts in, laughing. He couldn't even keep a straight face when we were getting chastised.

"It's not! I still can't believe you lot agreed to put that in the movie! You're worse than schoolboys. Just sing and flirt with those pretty girls in the first row. They're paying too much money, and we want them to keep doing that."

I smirk to myself. That shuts Styles up pretty quick. I can't wait to make my exit now.

"Now, as I was saying," our manager continues, "this week you're going to—"

"I'm not going," I say. I couldn't guarantee that the others would ever be this quiet again. It was worth pissing off the boss to get my voice out there.

And I sure did piss him off.

"You're what, Malik?" he bellows "And just why aren't you going? Got plans with that little girl of yours, do ya'?"

God, I hate it when he brings up Perrie, Truth be told, I don't even like bringing up Perrie these days. But I'll be damned if I fuck this up.

"I'm not going anywhere anymore," I say. "I'm done. With all of this. I'm leaving."

That nearly blew the top off the building.

Niall blanches, and I think he might cry. Liam looks like he wants nothing more than to slug me. Mr. Funny Man Louis doesn't look much like laughing with his jaw clenched, and Harry—well, Harry looks like I just told him I leaked his sex tape. The Golden Child is speechless.

All of this lasts for about a second before the screaming starts, all directed at me of course. It sounds like they're all competing to outdo the other ones. And I think Niall is actually crying now.

"Whattaya' fuckin' mean you're done, ya bellend?"

"We're in the middle of a tour! You can't just fuckin' up and leave!"

"You're a right proper arse, you know that?"

"You can piss the fuck off, then, Zayn! And take your shitty attitude with you!"

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I add, "It was inevitable. We could never do this forever."

But loudest of all, because he says it quietly, his face purple with rage, is our manager: "Then go. Walk out of here, and don't come back."

So I do, with a few of the assistants, still pretty dumbfounded, escorting me.

If I would turn around, I'd see my former bandmates looking shocked and hurt and right livid.

But I don't.

Because I don't care.

I stopped caring a long time ago.

And now I'm free.