HARRY
There's a twinge in my eyes from staring at my phone-screen. Louis' number is taunting me, judging me for worrying. But then Louis' number isn't aware that Louis is the kind of heartache that time can't heal. He's every what-if I never got to explore, every might've-been that never was, because our parents ruined it, the very definition of right-person-wrong-time.
I'm on my own in my apartment now. Niall is out, somewhere, presumably not as much of a nervous mess as I am. The quiet is loud, so loud I can hear it ringing in my ears as I wait on Louis to pick up, because, at some point, my fingers moved on their own accord.
"Harry?"
His voice is impossibly soft. My heart breaks again. And again. And again.
"Did they tell you yet?"
"Yeah. A minute ago."
"Do you... can we meet up and talk?"
"About what?"
I sigh, palms sweating. "Anything. I want to see you."
There's a pause. "Okay. Yeah."
We agree on a place and time. Louis seems... not as pleased as I was hoping. Maybe I was expecting a reaction interchangeable to mine. We've been friends since we were 14, and in spite of our every protest, our parents got married when we were 17. We never approved, or grew to approve, because even at 17, we had all these feelings for each other that we hadn't quite figured out yet, much less gotten to act on.
And we never did, not until we were 21 and met up with our mutual friends. We never meant to, but we were tipsy and on our own, and one thing led to something we agreed to never mention again. I never regretted it, but I imagine Louis did, not because it wasn't good or right, but because he was always more cautious, more concerned. But whenever he looks at me... he never felt it any less, not any of it—the immensity of it got to us both in equal amounts. Louis was just more intent on fighting it.
But we're 25 now and our parents just split up. It feels... freeing, as if now I won't need to keep my feelings to myself, or pretend I'm not still in a state of unmanageable want and need, or that I'm not searching for him, or imagining him in everyone I bring back to my apartment. There's greed in it, too, probably, because as much as I never wished my mum even an ounce of unhappiness, there's an opportunity in it somewhere. Which isn't to say my own happiness matters more, but I was forced to give it up once already. I can't go through it again.
We meet up at a cafe the next morning and order tea. I see him regularly, but not nearly as much since that night. As soon as we separated, remnants of our fragile friendship—a friendship we'd tried very hard to hold on to—slipped through our fingers the same way water would. The bit we had left came apart, fragmentised and shattered, and only a few pieces still remain.
Seeing him now feels different, though, as if maybe we can mend some of what we unintentionally ruined. Allowing myself to really look at him is a breath of fresh air as I imagine something more—he wraps his hands around his mug, and my eyes track his movement until I want to press my lips against his fingertips, his knuckles, his palm, his wrist—
"Harry?"
His eyes are outrageously blue. He seems pleased to see me, though perhaps a bit apprehensive and tense, too.
"How are you?"
"Fine," he says, voice as soft as it was on the phone yesterday. "I know why you wanted to see me."
"I imagine so."
He's not saying anything in response. For a moment, he simply stares at me, expression one I can't read. "Harry, I... I'm seeing someone."
