Young & Beautiful

discovered that there are more bruises. It’d been almost two weeks ago since Louis’ seen Harry.
The other ones must have healed. There’s more. There are more. And Louis can only think of
Des. His stomach burns at the image.
“I don’t know,” he chokes out, and he bites his lip to keep from spitting out anything else.
Niall must catch onto something (for once in his life) because he doesn’t say anything after that,
just raises his eyebrow before placing his cigar back in his teeth and retreating to his room.
Louis’ throat hurts.
Everything hurts.
**
Every single day, Louis thinks about texting Harry. But he doesn’t know what to say, so he
doesn’t.
He only actually goes through with it once, when he’s leaving his Victorian Playwrights
examination with a newfound confidence and a bounce in his step, knowing that he passed with
flying colors—all because of Harry’s tutoring.
‘I think I can safely say I passed my final exam. Thanks to you. I appreciate your help this term.’
He’s about to wish him luck on his own exams, about to inquire as to how he is, but then Louis
isn’t sure if Harry even takes exams and thinks he probably knows the answer to how he’s doing,
so he leaves the message as is and sends it before he can regret his actions, mentally marking it as
the last thing he’ll ever say to Harry.
Because, obviously, Harry won’t text him back.
And besides, he’s done with Harry. He has to be—Harry’s all but thrown him out on his ass—and
now life is about being easy. It’s about making life easy for Louis and doing well in school and
getting a good job and making some good, mentally stable mates and drinking too much and
fucking too many people whose names he’ll never know. University isn’t about Harry fucking
Styles, so Louis is done with him, and Louis is going to make his life easier.
Except.
Life doesn’t get easier.
It doesn’t get easier when he can’t sleep at night or when he stares at his phone, willing it to light
up with a message, just one message, and anything to be said. Even if it’s just one letter or a
pocket dial or anything. It doesn’t get easier when he goes out of his way to walk by the gardens
and can’t help but peer into Harry’s shaded windows. It doesn’t get easier when he feels hollow
inside, when he ignores study mates’ requests to celebrate the end of term, when attractive boys
flirt, when people greet him with smiles, when Niall tries to drag him out to the clubs. It doesn’t
get easier at all.
He hears his name in the corridors, in the hallways, in the courtyard, in the classrooms—
everywhere. He hears whispers of his parties and exclamations of his conquests and his excess
and his charms and his body and his money and his quirks and every single word spoken from a
poisoned mouth that knows fuck all about Harry, just makes Louis’ blood boil. Positively boil. But
he says nothing, just keeps his head down, and studies, studies, studies until he forgets.