- Zayn -
The tension in the room was palpable, wrapping around us like thick fog as I stood with my arms crossed, trying to remain composed. My fingers tapped nervously against my bicep, a futile attempt to ease the knots forming in my gut. John leaned against a table, his jaw tense, eyes locked on the door, where all our problems seemed to be waiting. It felt like the ticking of a clock, counting down to an inevitable confrontation.
"Do you think it's Lizzie?" Lizzie's Mother asked, voice barely above a whisper. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, betraying her calm demeanor as she stared at the door as if it were a portal to our worst nightmares.
"No way. She's still upstairs," I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside. "I bet they're the troublemakers themselves."
Just
