Echoes of us

Chapter three

No one says anything for a long moment. Steve's the first to break the silence... "Well... that went well."

Isaac snorts, though there's no humor in it. "Yeah. He's really doing great, isn't he?"

Bella frowns, pushing her plate away. "He needs space, but... it feels like he's drifting."

"I know," I murmur, my eyes still on the door.

"Do you think he and Lily—" Isaac starts, but Steve cuts him off with a sharp look.

"Not our business, man," Steve says quietly. "He'll talk when he's ready."

Isaac sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know, but... he looks wrecked."

We all sit there for a few more minutes, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. The mood is heavy, like we're all waiting for something to break. But Louis isn't ready, and we're not going to force him.

"We'll be here for him," Bella says quietly, her eyes meeting mine. "Whenever he's ready."

I nod, though deep down, I worry. How long will we have to wait? How long can Louis keep pretending everything's fine before it all falls apart?

***

The energy is always a mix of nerves and excitement, but tonight something feels different. Everyone's gathered around, the usual pre-show banter replaced by a tense silence that no one dares to break. The crew is moving efficiently, setting up equipment and checking final details, but the air feels heavier than usual.

Louis stands off to the side, staring down at his phone, his face unreadable. He hasn't said much since we left the hotel, and his expression remains neutral. It's not like him to be this quiet, especially before a show. Usually, he's the one cracking jokes, lightening the mood, hyping up the rest of the band. But tonight, there's a wall between him and the rest of us.

I find Louis in his dressing room later, sitting on his sofa, elbows resting on his knees, head down. He's showered and dressed, but he still looks like hell. His hair is damp, hanging messily over his forehead, and the shadows under his eyes are darker than I've ever seen.

"Hey," I say softly, stepping into the room. "Are ou ready to pick out what you're wearing for tonight?"

He shrugs, barely glancing up at me. "Whatever. Just pick something. I don't care."

The casualness in his voice is forced, and I know it. Louis cares about everything he wears. He's particular, always tweaking and adjusting until he feels like himself. Today, though, it's like he can't be bothered.

I don't push. Instead, I walk over to his closet, flipping through his clothes. My fingers land on a red mesh t-shirt, and a pair of black jeans. Simple, but bold. It'll stand out under the stage lights. I pull them out and toss them onto the bed beside him.

"How about these?" I ask.

Louis looks at the clothes for a second, then nods without a word. He doesn't say thank you, doesn't smile, just grabs the shirt and starts pulling it over his head. His movements are stiff, mechanical, like he's just going through the motions. Something in my chest tightens, watching him like this. This isn't the Louis I know. He's always full of energy, always cracking jokes or throwing in some smart-ass comment. But today, he's quiet. Shut off.

I open my mouth to say something, maybe to ask if he wants to talk about it, but then I stop myself. I can't force it out of him. So I just watch as he pulls on the black jeans, adjusting the waistband and looking in the mirror without really seeing his reflection.

"I'll meet you outside," I say, feeling like I should give him some space. He doesn't even nod, just keeps staring into the mirror, lost in his own head.