Liam's POV: "I know there's nothing I can do to change it, but is there something that can be negotiated? / My heart's already breaking, baby, go on twist the knife"

"I'm done. With all of this. I'm leaving."

I hear Zayn's voice in my head like he left yesterday. I don't remember the following days, though. We crafted the statement, made the announcement. Made up a bunch of shit about how we'd miss him and wish him the best when, in reality, I would have liked smack him across his smug little face, and I think Louis had a proper kidnapping scheme in the works. The lads and I cried a little at the time, but, looking back, I can't say I'm surprised. Zayn had been withdrawing for years. He always looked bored or arrogant or like he was better than us. He wasn't having fun, and he wasn't fun to have around.

He didn't even say "goodbye."

After everything we'd been through, he didn't care enough to say goodbye.

So good riddance.

I sit up and shake off the memories. God, I wish I could sleep these days. Not that it matters much; I'd be up at the arsecrack of dawn anyway, because it's release day. Maybe our last one.

I get dressed in the dark, hoping I can fool my body that it's sleeping, and stumble out into the living room. Harry's passed out on the couch, all arms and legs and hair sprawled out in all directions. Niall's curled up in the recliner like some kind of cat, and that means that Louis must have won the battle for the guest room.

Carefully, I step over empty bottles and cans. As if it matters. The lads are sloshed. They wouldn't hear a firetruck if it barreled through the room right now.

I fumble through my kitchen, looking for clean mugs and coffee grinds. Truth be told, I'm still feeling the effects of last night, too. We drank until after 2AM, and it's a quarter after 4 now. We've done that too often these last few months. Since Zayn left. And Louis found out he's having a kid. And we started fighting about dumb shit. We mostly agree when we're drunk, so we get drunk a lot.

Finally, fed up and headachy, I cut the light on. I hear Harry groan, but I can't muster much sympathy.

"Get up, Haz!" I call. "It's release day!" The old nickname is hollow in my mouth, but it's what I'm supposed to say in the moment. I know that.

I love the lads. We're brothers. We've grown up together, but, after burning the candle at both ends for 5 years, I'm tired. But I keep going through the motions hoping that, at some point, they'll feel right again. Somewhere deep down, I know that won't happen if we keep going like this. Maybe that's why I keep drinking. To avoid that fact.

If we didn't love each other, why would we spend more nights together than apart. We have our own flats in the same building. We could each sleep in our own beds every night, but we haven't spent more than a night apart since the last tour ended. It's like we know our days are numbered. Or maybe we can't stand to think there's one empty apartment that we'll never go into again.

Fuck, Zayn. Fuck him for leaving. Fuck us for ever having loved him.

I pour two cups of black coffee and carry them into the living room. I make space among the beer cans and chocolate wrappers on the end table for one and nudge Niall's makeshift bed with my foot.

"Get up, Nialler. The car's coming in 45 minutes," I say. Forcing a smile, I add, "It's release day."

Apparently, Harry's more awake than I realized, because he chimes in with a half-coherent sentence in his gravelly, sleep-heavy voice: "Th' nex' album's called 'Made a' 4 inna Afternoon.'"

I almost chuckle. We keep making these plans—"the next album," "the next tour," "next time this," and "next time that." I dunno' if "next time" will ever come.

"Well, since you're up, Haz, drink some coffee, and go waken Tommo," I say, handing him the second mug.

Harry rolls his eyes.

"Hey, I did it yesterday," I remind him.

"Make Niall do it," Harry whines.

"Niall's asleep," I say simply, noticing that Niall's blonde head is still neatly tucked between his arm and the arm of the chair.

"Fine, "Harry groans and forces himself, unsteadily, off the couch. He's fully clothed, an unusual state for Harry. He must have been right wasted when he fell asleep.

I sip on my own coffee and pop two aspirin into my mouth to combat the pounding n my head, hoping desperately that I won't vomit it up.

"C'mon, Niall," I call loudly in the direction of the living room. "We leave in 30 minutes, and you're a proper fucking mess, mate." He hasn't been snoring since I turned the light on. I know he's not really asleep.

Niall sits up and grins, his blue eyes glassy. He sips the coffee beside him and perks up a fraction.

"Thanks, Payno. Glad ta' see ya."

I really can't be mad at that little Irish tosser, can I?

By some miracle, we all make it out the door by 5AM and even seem partly alive. We've gotten pretty good at working through hangovers over the years. We know how to turn on the charm, and, to an extent, we genuinely enjoy the media days, especially seeing the fans. They've been so supportive since Zayn left. This album is for them. They, at least, deserve something good.

It's a bloody whirlwind of radio stations and TV interviews. We get asked about Zayn at ever goddamn one: "How was it recording without Zayn?" "Who will take Zayn's parts in the old songs?" "Have you been in touch with Zayn since he left?" "Are you replacing Zayn?" We knew it would happen, but it's exhausting. I'm running on 2 hours of sleep and almost break before we finally get a break.

"Blimey, the media's voracious, ain't it?" I ask once the four of us are alone in the car.

"Vultures," Louis agrees, waving to a line of screaming girls on the street. Then he adds, "Look at this one, though, she's got a sign."

I look, and I smile, too. In the parade crowd that's formed, there's a girl, maybe 16, holding a sign: "'Hey Angels,' today will go down in 'History'! My name's 'Olivia,' and I came a 'Long Way Down' from Manchester this 'A.M.' to say that 1D is "Perfect," and even though I've seen you "Infinity" times, it's "Never Enough," and I can't wait to see you at 'End of the Day'!"

"Someone get her contact info," I say. "We should send her something."

It's Olivia's sign that reminds me why I do this. How lucky I am that I get to do this.

But I'm still tired, and I fall asleep before we get to the next station.