The Letters (Larry Fan Fiction)

Louis Tomlinson was the perfect boy. Soft hair with baby blue eyes. He's nothing anymore. Nothing but dead. That hazy image of Louis' suicide lingers in Harry's mind every second of everyday and he can't help but blame himself. What happens when he finds all of the letters that Louis had ever written him but never sent? The ones in the old shoe box underneath the bed that were never meant to be found...


1. Letter 1


 Dear Harry,


I've been gone for a while now. Not physically, but my soul has left and it took my heart with it. It wouldn't be useful anyway. It's shattered. They say to fix it if it's broken but it wouldn't do any good anyway. No one wants a heart that has glue peeking out from the cracks or stitches and scars from the operation that never could have worked anyway.


I was alone the entire day today. You were out with whoever that girl was. You deserve better, Harry.  I'm not sure if anyone could ever be good enough for you and as I sit here on my bed in the dark writing this to you, I'm starting to wonder if I'm just one of those people too. One of those people that could never live up to your expectations and could never take care of you like you're supposed to be taken care of. If that's true, I guess I've been lying to myself and only setting myself up for disappointment.


I often dream about you, whether it be in my sleep or simply when I can't stop looking at that crooked smile of yours when I begin to daydream. I often think about you. I picture your curls a mess on top of your head, I picture your green eyes and how they sparkle whenever you have the slightest grin on your face. And whenever those perfectly clear images tip toe their way into my imagination, a smile starts to paint it's way across the canvas that is my face. 


I'm smiling to myself now as I write this and I can feel tears lining the brims of my eyes. I'm not sure if they're happy tears because it makes me joyful when I think about you or if they're tears full of sadness because I know I can never call you my own.


To tell you the truth. I'm not exactly sure why I'm writing his to you. Maybe it's to vent my feelings or maybe it's just because I couldn't sleep. You'll never read these letters, Harry. Not while I'm still alive. If that's the case, I'm not sure how long you'll have to wait to read them. I could be gone tomorrow. It's funny how in just a matter of seconds you could be just a distant memory.


Light is starting to peek through my windows. It looks like someone was trying to paint the sun but got lazy and just ended up smearing everything across the canvas that used to be filled with emptiness. I can hear you in the room next to me, rustling around under the covers and I can't help but wonder if you're dreaming. 


My pencil is getting dull and I can't seem to keep my eyes open for much longer. I can hear you snoring and I feel a grin being plastered to my face. When I hear that noise, I know that there will be a tomorrow and maybe even a day after that. It's not until now that I realize that you'll probably keep me alive more than anything else could. Don't let me down, Harry. Don't let me stop breathing. I'll see you later, pal.






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