I Hate You (Larry Stylinson) ✅

36. anger

July 11  

Harry's POV 

"Babe? Are you up?" I call from the kitchen. We just got back from the retreat last night, and neither of us really want to do any work today. But it's Monday, and there are things to write and emails to send. 

"Yeah, coming," Louis replies, jogging into the kitchen. 

"What do you want for breakfast?"  I ask, planting a kiss on his cheek. His hair is all wet, as he just finished with his shower, and I smooth it back, gazing into his eyes. 

"Mm," Louis frowns. "Not really hungry."

My heart drops. I don't even try to hide it. I just stare at him, bewildered. Just the other day, he was eating whatever he wanted, with no limitations. Now, he didn't want breakfast. 

"But I thought... but we had that talk..." I reply, my mouth gaping open.

Louis looks at the floor. "I know. I felt so much better on the retreat, but then I got back home and I was trying on pants and I remembered how gross I was and...."

I take a seat, resting my elbows on the table and putting my head in my hands. 

"Louis," I say. I'm nearly crying. I really am, because I just don't know what to do anymore. Every time he makes progress, he just goes back down the path of self destruction. And I don't know how to help him. I wish I did, fuck it, I would take on the illness for him if I could. I would do anything if it made him feel better. 

But I can't. Instead, I'm just sitting here, about to cry. And I'm not even the one who's ill. 

I feel so fucking helpless. 

"Aww, Hazzie, don't get upset," Louis says. I feel his hands on my shoulders. They're strong, but who knows for how long. How long will it be before they're nothing but bones again, before he's nothing but bones again?

He kisses my neck, but I slump forward, folding my arms onto the table as I sink down. 

"Haz, are you okay? I'll eat breakfast, just not now. And something healthy," Louis says enthusiastically. 

I sigh and then sit up, facing Louis. There are definitely tears in my eyes, but I don't care anymore. 

"You can't keep doing this, Louis," I croak. My voice is dry and hoarse and not just because it's the morning. It's because I'm exhausted, drained. I'm so tired of not being able to help him. 

"I'm not doing anything, Harry. I'm eating, I am gonna eat so I can focus on my writing, like I told you," Louis replies, taking a seat next to me. "I just think I should eat a bit healthier so I don't get super out of shape. Plus, I have to go back to football today..."

Football. Is he fucking out of his mind? I want to take his cleats and his jerseys and throw them in a fucking fire pit and burn them. But even then, I bet you he would show up on the field and run laps until he fainted. 

"Louis," I say again. I try to find the words to express what I'm feeling, but I can't. There's nothing I can say to make this better. 

"I just... I'm not okay," I say, breaking down and crying.

"What's wrong?" Louis asks, rubbing smooth circles on my back. 

I turn to him, peering into his eyes. "I just can't do this anymore. I can't watch you destroy yourself like this..."

"I'm not --"

"Don't you tell me you're not," I say. The tears are starting to fall now. I'm crying, screaming too. How does he not understand what he's doing to himself?