I Hate You (Larry Stylinson) ✅

14. discussions

Trigger warning: mentions of suicide and suicide attempts

Suicide is not a joke. This is not meant to dramatize suicide in any way, just to raise awareness and bring light to the issue. It is no one's fault; it is the result of a mental illness.

Feb 21 (cont)

Louis' POV

As soon as we finish having sex, I feel sick to my stomach. And not just because I just fucked Harry Styles. I actually feel sick....

Oh my god.

I rush to the bathroom, and collapse onto the toilet, vomiting violently.

My head is a whirlwind of thoughts. I hardly remember Harry entering my apartment. How did he get in here? Why is here? And most importantly, why did I fuck him?

I haven't eaten anything but carrots in the past three days and so of course my puke is coming up orange. I wince and heave again, nearly hitting my face on the toilet seat.

I feel simultaneously hot and cold at the same time, and then I begin to feel dizzy, like I'm about to...

When I open my eyes, Harry is standing over me, stroking my head softly.

"Are- are you okay?" he stammers.

I blink my eyes, looking around. The cold white tiles of the bathroom floor feel smooth beneath my fingers, and Harry's hand feels soft and strong on my forehead.

"I... honestly, dunno," I admit, sitting up. I instantly feel like I'm going to throw up again, but the feeling passes and my head begins to throb instead.

"I'm going to take you to the doctor, okay?" Harry says quietly, offering me a head.

I'm not sure if I should take it. Should I take it? Should I trust anything this guy does? Thank god I wore a condom.

Harry stares at me, waiting for me to take his hand. I want to. Deep down I want to take it. I want to go to the doctor. This isn't the first time I've passed out in the past few days, and my joints have been aching mercilessly for weeks. My hair is falling out, my skin is a pale grey color.

I feel s o s i c k.

But I can't go to the hospital. I fucking can't. Because if I go, they'll tell me I have a problem. That I have a problem and that I have to eat more. And they'll make me eat more. Tons and tons of food until I get fat - fat like the old Louis that Harry hated. The old, disgusting, fat, lazy Louis.

He sucked. I still suck, as my present self. I still don't get writing gigs. Fuck, I got fired from my cashier job and I can't even pay rent now. And I'm still fat, still gross. But at least I am making progress, at least I'm getting less fat over time. That's all the really matters anyways, isn't it.

"No," I say weakly, shaking my head. I get up on my own, my legs shaking as I rise to my feet.

I nearly trip, and Harry places his arm on the arch of my back to support me.

"Don't... don't touch me..." I say, pushing his hand away. I'm about to cry now. I'm so disgusting.

"Louis... I can feel your spine," Harry says. The color drains from his face and he grabs my wrist, slowly walking me to the bedroom.

We both sit down on the bed next to each other, not saying anything, not looking at each other.

"You're hurting yourself because of me," Harry says in a husky voice. It's the first time I ever heard any real intonation in his voice, any tangible emotion. Because of me... because of him...