I nuzzle up beside him and he turns the page. Last one. 394. I'm not sure how someone could have the willpower and strength to wait weeks before finally reading the ending to a book. But that's Zayn for you. He waited patiently for me for nearly three years, wasn't even sure he'd ever get me back but when I called he answered. Whenever I needed him, he was there. Even if it hurt him more than anything.

"I'm ready," he smiles, leans in and gently kisses my cheek.

All of my moving boxes are cluttering up the house. His house. My house. Our house. The one I showed up to with Liam, shit-faced drunk. His toes tickle mine at the end of the bed and I giggle.

"Aren't you going to read it to me," he teases, fingers brushing through my curls.

"Yeah," I offer a smile in return. "Just lost in my thoughts."

My lips start moving, my lips make sound.

And through it all he learned that broken fragments of memories don't always have to piece themselves back together. Some things will come naturally, like the sunrise each morning. Other things might fade away, the receding of the ocean tide.

It's broken hearts that we should actively try to mend, for a heart can carry more detail and unearth the past with far more clarity and conviction than any part of the brain. Memories may live in the brain, but they stem from the heart. What memories have we made that weren't created out of feeling? What is a memory if not a particular moment in time when our hearts felt stirred?

For what is tucked inside your heart will surely stay forever.