Young & Beautiful

There’s a soft knock on the door.
“Yeah?” he calls tiredly, rubbing his eyes.
The door gently opens, wide eyes and long, blonde hair visible.
“Charlotte,” he smiles. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She grins, rolling her eyes at him, before making her way in and sitting beside him on the bed.
“Got you something.”
“Did you? Why didn’t you give it to me after dinner?” he asks, tired and fuzzy, his smile
permanent on his face.
She hands him a small, square package, her cheeks plumped into a pleased smile. She shrugs. “I
dunno. Because.”
He chuckles a bit, unwrapping it expertly. His smile only widens when he sees what lies beneath.
It’s a framed photo of Louis, his sisters, and his mum the day he left for uni. They’re clustered
together, smiling and sunny, and in the corner of the frame is a tiny scrap of paper with the words,
“Miss you Lou!!” written in Charlotte’s handwriting.
Fuck. That is really fucking sweet. And, no, Louis is not getting emotional.
“Why thank you, love,” he smiles, immediately hugging her and blinking away the shine of nottears.
“Do you like it?” she ask, voice muffled by his shoulder.
He laughs softly. “Love it.” He feels her smile before she pulls away, her eyes quiet and peering at
his face.
“Do you miss us, too?” she asks.
His heart pangs again—he really is a shit brother, isn’t he?—as he smiles, mussing up her hair.
“All the time, yeah,” he says softly. “I’ll call you more. Maybe even write a letter or two.”
“Send us presents??” she asks hopefully.
He laughs, nudging her with his elbow. “So many presents. It will actually become annoying how
many presents I send.”
She beams, nodding, and standing up off the bed. “It’s a promise, then. Goodnight, Lou. Happy
birthday.” She hugs him one last time, arms clutched around his neck, and he smiles wider than he
has in weeks as he grips her close, her soft blond hair tickling his nose. “Love you,” she sings in
his ear, and then she glides out of the room, waving and smiling before she closes the door.
Louis continues to smile. Maybe being home isn’t so bad.
It’s only when he’s crawling into bed that he remembers he has a phone at all. It’s connected to
the charger, sitting on his nightstand, and as he lies there, burrowing his feet inside the blankets, he
flicks through the lock screen, eyes gliding over the familiar names and chunks of text wishing
him a happy birthday.
He’s got a couple from Zayn which makes him smile wide, pushing his cheeks into his eyes, and