***Louis Tomlinson***
Saturday, July 14th, 2012 – North London, England

I was done crying by the time I got home from Liam’s. I was hurt and angry and had never felt more alone in my life, but the numbness in my chest was turning to stoicism. I didn’t have any energy left. I didn’t care anymore.

I tried watching TV for awhile, but it didn’t work. I wasn’t hungry, and the thought of eating anything that wasn’t cooked by Harry didn’t sound appealing. I didn’t even feel the need to cut anymore – I just didn’t feel, and I didn’t know if that was good or bad. At the moment, I decided it was probably a good thing, because if I felt the way I was supposed to right then, I would probably curl up and die.

After a couple of hours of being bored and emotionless, I decided to try and get some sleep, even though I knew that was a shot in the dark. I went up to my room and saw Harry’s Pink Floyd shirt lying on my floor from when he had slept in there the night before. I lost it. I fell to my knees, grabbed the shirt and hugged it, taking in Harry’s scent as I sobbed into it. All the emotions that I was too numb to feel earlier came flooding to me all at once, and it was too much to handle.

I wanted to call Harry. I wanted to tell him I loved him, that I would always love him. Why couldn’t I just do that? What was wrong with me? Why was it so hard for me to put my heart out there! I knew it was already broken beyond repair, so it wasn’t like things could get worse. No wonder he didn’t want to be with me – I couldn’t tell him how much he meant to me. I knew I would spend the rest of my life alone, because if I couldn’t have Harry I didn’t want anybody. But the amount I wanted Harry was overwhelming. And then I started to wonder about him – where had he gone, after all? Something would have to be done about our living arrangement at some point, but for the time being, the kid needed a place to sleep. I wasn’t sure if he would’ve been able to drive all the way to his parent’s house – he had been pretty shaken when he’d left Liam’s. And then I remembered what had happened the last time one of us had gotten in a car angry, and I panicked. I didn’t think he’d write me back if I texted him, though, so I decided to text the only other person who might know where he was – Gemma.

“Is Harry there?” I wrote, wanting to sound casual. It took her a second, and when she wrote back, I stared at her response for a long minute.

“Yes,” she wrote. “And he still loves you. Are YOU okay, Lou?” If I had been okay before that text, I certainly wasn’t okay after. How could he still love me after everything? Not wanting to lie to Gemma, I just avoided the question instead.

“Glad Harry is okay,” was all I wrote back, and then I tore through the house looking for a razor blade. It wasn’t an easy task, as Harry and I would always clean out as many as we could find whenever we caught the other one cutting. Eventually, I found one in one of my drawers in the bathroom, and cut my hip until it completely lost all feeling just like my insides had earlier, hoping for that numbness to return. Eventually, when I couldn’t even feel the impact of the blade to my skin anymore, I limped to my bed and fell asleep holding Harry’s shirt.

Sunday was one of the worst days of my life. It was worse than when my family told me they didn’t love me, because even then, I still had Harry. It was worse than when I got in the car accident, because, well, when I woke up, I still had Harry. But Sunday? No Harry on Sunday. No Harry, or Zayn, or Liam, or Niall. I was the most stubborn one out of all of us, and therefore wouldn’t be the first to text the others. Everyone else must’ve been feeling the same way though, because for the first time I could remember, my phone didn’t go off once all day.

I was able to get my guitar out and sing for awhile. That helped, and healed, as singing always did for me. The rest of the day, though, was unproductive. I mostly just laid in my bed with Harry’s shirt, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how I had massively screwed everything in my life up. Why couldn’t I just be happy? Why could I not accept that things were going well in my life – or, at least, going okay, and would soon be good again? Why did I have to go and screw it all up and hurt the people I loved the most? And why was my heart so numb!

Monday came, very slowly. I was aware that we were supposed to be at the recording studio for a session that morning. I was aware that we were basically contractually obligated to be there. But mostly I was aware that I did not want to spend another day laying around in my own self pity, so I got in my car and drove to the studio, not sure what to expect or if the other boys would even show up at all.