They say when the sun sets, sunflowers face each other. But what if there was no other sunflower to turn to? What if each sunflower had been plucked out, leaving one to its misery, lone and terrified, with no kind of its own, a cruel world in its wa...
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Louis did not call.
Harry tried to wish him on his birthday, which was just two days after he had left, but the man with blue eyes never picked his phone. So Harry texted him, too, waited all night for a text back, a 'thank you' perhaps, a smiley would have worked, too. But he never replied, kept Harry on seen, anxiousness clawing him from within.
Happy Christmas. I miss you xx, he'd text the next morning.
I hope you are fine, it is not the same without you here x.
I walked by the florist today, he wrote one day, saw a bunch of peonies x.
Happy New Year, Lou. Wish you were here with me to watch the fireworks. I hope we are staring at the same sky. I miss you. So much.
Cow misses you, too, even peed in front of your door. Talk to me, please?
Did I do something wrong, Lou? Was his last text, written while his wrist bled, while he cried lying in his nest. Of course, it had to be it. He was Harry after all. Harry who was easily forgettable, Harry who did not matter.
It had been two weeks already, a life without Louis in it. If someone would have asked Harry a month ago if he would survive as many days without Louis, he would have cracked up as though the question was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Now, he did not know what he was to make of his life. He was lost, he was alone, stuck somewhere dark. He wanted to get out of there so bad, wanted to run away, find himself. But he was stuck and the darkness was swallowing him.
It hurt him more when he realised Louis was only ignoring him. He had seen Louis' name flash on Katherine's phone and the way she was so hesitant to pick it up in front of him. Harry did not even know what to feel anymore. He felt disconnected, from himself and from the world around. His health was deteriorating rapidly, sleepless nights and poor eating habits turning his skin as pale as a ghost, his bones sticking to his skin.
He wore larger clothes to avoid questions, but it did not matter as long as they saw his face. It was evident from the way he had bags of exhaustion under his eyes, from how his cheeks were hollowed. And the cold. The damn cold. He despised it from the bottom of his soul. No matter how many layers he wore, it aided in no sense to keep him warm. He had passed out thrice because of it, curling around himself to get rid of it until his body could no longer bear it and gave out.
It was a heavy morning. Gloomy as always, sun hidden somewhere in the clouds. The city was still celebrating though, welcoming the new year with joy and laughter. Harry wished he could be as happy, as overjoyed for something as simple as a year blooming into a new one.
He was walking to Cakesmith after dropping his kitten, careful of the snow that was on the pavements. The shops were pretty and colourful, agglomeration of wishes and signs and offers being put on display in a sea of fonts and sparkles. Even the beanie on his head or the scarf around his neck didn't erase the piercing frigidity in the air, the woollen socks and boots did nothing to avoid his feet from freezing.
