lumière

1.

The boys arms were lined with red marks and white scars. He sat in the corner of the library with his sleeves pushed up, and he was staring at his arms. I had every notion in my mind pointed to the obvious reasons why his arms were cut and scratched and dug up as badly as they were. I just didn't want to believe it.

He was beautiful. His hair was blond and his eyes, though they were downcasted towards his arms, were blue. I knew they were blue because he'd spoken to me maybe four times before and I never noticed how unhappy he was until now. The way his shoulders slumped in his seat, the way he sat away from everyone else, the way he sat in the library from the time it opened to the time it closed. I can't believe I didn't notice it before.

I breathed out and it came out shakier than I expected. I didn't realize I was crying until I felt a tear drop on my hand. I reached up and wiped the tears away before standing up fully. I started walking towards him, quietly. I didn't mean to sneak up on him, but I didn't want him to get a chance to run away from me.

I finally reached over to him and lightly touched his shoulder. He jumped and gave a startled sound before yanking his sleeves down over his arms. He started getting up but I stopped him.

"W­-wait. Don't go, please." I made my voice sound less loud and chirpy as it usually is, and hoped in my mind that he wouldn't leave. "Can I talk to you about something?"

At first he seemed horrified, his eyes going wide and his face paleing remarkably. Then he kind of breathed out through his mouth and gave a small nod. I gave him a small smile and sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Um, so my name's Louis. Louis Tomlinson." Why did I tell him my last name? "And, well, I feel a bit saddened, because, well um, because I saw your arms." I waited for him to run away and never come back to the library again, but he just looked down again. Shoulders slumped. Eyes casted down.

I didn't expect him to talk but he did, and said, "Why have my arms saddened you?" He had a soft voice, and a hint of an Irish accent.

"Well, I kind of noticed t​he, um, cuts and well they look a lot like they were self inflicted." I cringed at the words I was using. Self­inflicted? Who says that? God, I'm really dumb sometimes. 

"My cat scratched me. S'nothing."

I stared at him. "Your cat," I deadpanned.

He nodded slowly. "My cat." Then he sighed and stood up. "I have to go, Louis. This, was, um. This was, well, this." Then he walked away. Shoulders slumped. Eyes casted downward.

As I watched him walk slowly towards the library exit, I realized he didn't tell me his name. "Wait! You didn't tell me your name!" I yelled way louder than I should've in a library.

He turned back slowly towards me, "I didn't." Then he gave me a smile and my heart broke faster than the time it probably takes for someone to propel themselves off a bridge.

•

I couldn't stop thinking about him. I spent the whole weekend worrying about him and if he was hurting himself, or worse, thinking about offing himself. Everything that symbolized the word sad, from the songs on the radio to my cat's face when I leave the house in the morning without feeding him, reminded me of the sad boy. I didn't understand why he was on my mind.

And I didn't think I'd ever been so relieved to see his blond­covered head, which was down of course, sitting in the same corner I had spoken to him last. I was on my way to walk over to him when a hand wrapped itself around my upper arm and yanked me into a body.

"Oh, my god! Help-­" I was cut off by a laugh.

"I've never seen you so on edge, Tommo," the man said, and I yanked myself out of his grasp before punching him in the arm. Hard.