Habit

Chapter 8: Falling

Louis lay motionless on the cold, hard floor of his hotel room, staring at the dark ceiling above him. His phone rested face down on the carpet next to him, its screen lit up with a steady stream of notifications. Each ping felt like a weight, an accusation, a reminder that the world was moving on without him. The tension in his chest tightened with every new message—a text from his manager, a missed call from one of the boys, a comment from a fan. But none of it mattered right now.

The shadows in the room twisted, flickering across the walls in strange, distorted shapes as the dim light from a half-empty whiskey bottle beside him cast long shadows. The hum of the city outside filtered through the thin curtains, but inside, everything felt suffocating. He felt like he couldn't breathe, like the walls were closing in on him. He was drowning.

Drowning in the self-loathing that had been eating away at him for weeks, for months, maybe even longer. Every passing second only made the weight heavier, the pressure unbearable. He had never felt this lost. It wasn't just the loneliness. It was the overwhelming certainty that he was never going to be enough. Not for anyone. Not for himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he could see was Y/n. God, Y/n. Her face, her smile—it was branded into his mind, impossible to forget. He remembered how effortlessly happy she had been that day at the coffee shop, the way her laughter had filled the air, making the whole world seem brighter. She'd been so alive, like she had her own universe, one that he didn't quite belong in. He had sat there, across from her, fighting to find the right words, fighting to be someone he wasn't—someone she could love.

From the moment they'd met, he had been hopelessly in love with her. The way she spoke, how her eyes lit up when she laughed, how she looked at everything like it was worth noticing—everything about her was perfect. He had even gone so far as to plan with Niall to confess his feelings that night at the ice cream party. But then, in a moment of pure self-sabotage, he got distracted, let her leave, and just like that, he had failed. He couldn't even get the timing right, couldn't find the courage when it mattered most.

And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. He'd been so furious with himself for messing up that he drank, letting his guilt take over. And of course, she'd found him, passed out drunk and pathetic, and in that moment, she had seen him for what he truly was—a mess. He tried again, of course, to apologize, to make things right. But what did he do? He made it worse.

Third time's the charm, right? He had thought the coffee shop would be his chance. He'd rehearsed everything he wanted to say, imagined the perfect moment. But when he sat across from her again, all those carefully prepared words turned to dust in his mouth. He couldn't say anything. He just froze. Even if he had managed to speak, what was the point? He knew—deep down—she would never feel the same. He wasn't good enough for her. He never would be.

He had tried so hard to show her who he really was, beyond the fame, beyond the boy band persona everyone else saw. He wanted her to see the real him, the one that wasn't wrapped up in the spotlight, the one that could be enough for her. But when it came time to open up, he had said nothing. Nothing at all. He was trapped in his own doubts, a prisoner of his own insecurities. And in the end, nothing had come out of his mouth except silence.

I'm not enough for her. I'm never going to be enough. The thought echoed in his head, relentless.

His chest ached, the pain spreading through his limbs until he couldn't feel anything anymore. He squeezed his eyes shut harder, trying to block it out, but the thoughts wouldn't stop. They were sharp, cutting through him. The constant, biting voice that told him how pathetic he was, how weak, how everything he did—everything he was—was never going to be enough.