***Louis Tomlinson***
Thursday, July 19th, 2012 – North London, England

I did the dishes after a very awkward dinner with Harry, which only confirmed my fears that our friendship had been scarred by this as well. I wanted him in my life in some form, and I could get used to whatever form it had to be. But he had made it clear that it was all or nothing with me, and by this point it was looking like nothing. I scolded myself for being selfish and jumping into the relationship in the first place without worrying about what a risk it would be to our friendship. I had always known deep down that Harry could do a lot better than me, so I don’t know why I was so surprised now that he’d finally figured it out as well.

I spent the evening in my room writing song lyrics in my head that I knew we could never record because they were clearly directed at Harry and I didn’t want him to know how much this was killing me. When I’d finally had enough self torture, I went to turn off the light switch by my door, but I heard a sound coming down the hall from Harry’s room. I listened for a minute, and my stomach sank. He was crying.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run down the hall, jump in his bed, and take him in my arms. I wanted to tell him it would all be okay, and hug him tight and kiss him. But he hated me, and I was probably the last person he wanted in that moment. Besides, could I really hold him and hold myself together at the same time? I didn’t think so. But Harry was crying. My Harry was crying, and crying usually led to cutting. That did it. I hurried down the hall and didn’t bother knocking on his door before I opened it. Luckily, I didn’t see a razor blade anywhere, just my Harry laying on his bed, contorted into a tiny ball, his body convulsing with sobs. I walked over to him and sat down on his bed, then tentatively put my hand on his hip first to see how he’d react. To my wonderful surprise, he took his hand and put it on top of mine, squeezing it so hard like he needed it to keep from physically falling apart.

“Harry,” I gasped, and then I wrapped myself on top of him, holding him, which only made him cry harder but he put one of his arms around my back as well, clutching onto my shirt tightly. I felt my own tears spill at the pain of seeing him like that and of being so close to him yet so far away at the same time. I was careful to keep my face away from his so that he didn’t see my tears. Reflexively, I began stroking his hair, and he hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. I got enough strength to make my voice sound even, and then I spoke. “Am I making it worse?” I whispered. Harry shook his head, and even if I had been making it worse at least he still wanted me there, so I held him as tight as I could without suffocating him, hoping somehow that would make it better. Eventually, the poor kid fell asleep, and I laid awake for hours wondering how I could have caused so much pain to someone I loved so much.