dear louis; l.s

epilogue.

«harry styles found dead in L.A. apartment.»

«harry styles committed suicide?»

that's all louis read anywhere and it was almost the third time he broke down, it sucked.

saying he was extremely sad was something, but he was more than that. he was broken, lost, heart-broken.

you know, when you break up with someone you've loved. he was feeling like that, just ten times worse.

louis' flat was a mess, too. there was food wrappers everywhere, tissues (& worse than that, they were used), a broken lamp and tons of pages with stupid letters for a dead harry.

he sighed, running a hand through his messy and dirty hair for like, the twenty time that day. walking towards his room, he sobbed slowly. wishing he could turn back time and do something to save harry. if only, he could.

when louis entered the room, he was greeted by a cold and empty space, something he got used to by the time; louis took his socks slowly, his actions becoming slower and sadder by the second, placed a beanie in his hair and drifted to sleep, wishing he could at least see harry in his dreams.

because, at the end, louis loved harry. even if the curly-haired boy was dead, louis would never forget the sloppy handwriting, messy words basically on top of each other, all of them starting the same. "dear louis."