Misadventure

65

Louis' POV

"Louis, please."

"No." I shook my head, biting my bottom lip and trying not to cry.

It didn't take very long to pack. There were so many items in the dorm that technically belonged to me, but I couldn't bring myself to take, because Harry used them too.

Obviously, I wasn't going to take our shared bedding. I didn't need bedding. There wasn't a bed in my car.

"Baby, please stay," Harry begged. His voice was raw and broken from crying. He'd been crying for over an hour. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"Stop. Don't apologize. You and Zayn were right. I've been putting you through hell," I said.

I couldn't keep doing this to him. It was so apparent to me now. The longer we stayed together, trying to make things work, it would just make things all the more painful for us both in the end.

Every effort I'd ever made to stay sober for him in the past, seemed cruel in hindsight. It gave him false hope.

Will was right.

Being a heroin addict, that was my identity now. All this time Harry had spent worrying about me dying, he didn't realize that the drugs already killed me a long time ago. It killed the actual me, the bright eyed dreamer who loved music and snow and waking up early because I couldn't wait to see what each knew day would have in store.

Who took Harry under my wing and tried to shelter him from darkness, inviting him into my world because life was so exciting and beautiful through my young lenses, and I wanted to share that light with him.

Addiction killed that me and it replaced it with... this. This thing I was now.

The whole time I was packing, I kept hypothetical scenarios over and over in my mind, of a future universe in which Harry and I stayed together as a couple.

No matter how I spun it, the ending was always shit.

Maybe we would've had a family. And I would've been just like Harry's mum, promising our children 94 times I would get sober, only to break their hearts and mold them to be incapable of trusting anyone.

Maybe Harry would've been like his own father, constantly second guessing what the right way to handle things. Maybe he would've forgiven me over and over again when I didn't deserve it, trying to keep peace, until eventually I pushed him away.

Or maybe I would've been like my own mother. Strict. Cross. Dictator-ish. Constantly pushing them towards perfection, so they wouldn't turn out as fucked up as me.

"Here. Take the comforter," Harry said. He began rolling it up, the pastel blue one we both loved so much. It was soft, and smelled like the lavender detergent from the laundry room at his dad's house.

I put my hands over his to stop them, then picked up the comforter and remade the bed with it. "I'm not taking your comforter," I said.

"Our comforter."

"It was your's first," I reminded him.

He frowned. "I don't think I can fall asleep without you anymore."

"Please don't say that," I mumbled. My voice was barely above a whisper, but it was as loud as I could manage without bursting into tears.

"It's true. I need you, Lou," he said.

I felt my eyes become wet, "No you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"You don't," I argued. "You and Zayn clearly proved how much better off you'd be without me, without having to worry about me."