The event changed everything, but a story can’t have a central theme unless there are walls to support it, roads that take you there and on, because I can’t just give you a fact and you understand it fully until I explain it. So here it is; I love Harry Styles, but the roads that I take you on to understand may not be one’s that you really want to travel, so heed the signs on the barren roadsides, and understand. I’ll tell you about the days, thirty before and thirty after, encompassing Harry’s attempted suicide.


29. 7 days before


Harry is moody today, but not for any alarming reasons. "I search the whole stinking town and I can't find a single gift for you," he gripes, crossing his arm and turning his head away. "I don't need a gift, Harry." I laugh. "This party is plenty I suppose. I'm sure I'll get a lot of thank-you cards from the kids that are going to ravage the hotel rooms." "Oh that reminds me…" Harry unfolds his arms and clasps his hands together in his lap. Biting his lip nervously, he looks up at me through his hair. "Who are you going to stay with?" I set aside the book I was reading and stare, more so because I haven't even begun to think about such a thing more than the fact that the question was asked. "I'm not sure. What about you?" "I suppose I can stay with one of you guys." I study his nervous expression before something clicks. "Oh! Yeah, we can share a room. Single lads forever, huh?" I chuckle and pick up my book, as he nods and sinks into the cushions to sleep. The moonlight that fills the room glints on the peppermint wrappers piled on the table close to him, and cast the length of him in shadow. "You're beautiful," I blurt out, and I almost instinctively slap my hand over my mouth. I wasn't supposed to think things like that, much less say them aloud. He sits up, his mouth parted slightly as he looks at me. "Beautiful?" "Gorgeous," I agree after a pause, because it's kind of too late to cover up my blunder and I don't really care. I guess I had been treating him as an animal recently, that I had stopped thinking of him as a person. I feel as if my heart is swelling as I look at him, how he grins widely at my compliment, and the uneven thundering of my heartbeat tells me that it would be a shame to leave him alone on the couch, so I join him. We envelope each other as we always have, but for the very first time, I feel something a lot more from his touch, from the burst of shivers it sends skittering across my skin like dandelions puffs in the wind, and I don't want to leave the island that we share in the dark. "Thank you, Louis," he says softly, with such an earnest and fragile appreciation you would think that I had just pulled him from the edge of a cliff. But maybe I kind of had.

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