I Hate You (Larry Stylinson) ✅

46. promises

a/n: hey so I usually never back-track and repeat the same series of events but in this one I did because I wanted to show you Louis' perspective of the hospital scene.

Nov 1

Louis' POV

I fucking hate Monday's. First, because they're MONDAYS. Second, because it means I have to go to the doctors. It's a lose, lose really.

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to get dressed and leave Liam's apartment for an appointment that was long overdue. I hadn't been to the doctor's in nearly a month, and I'm certain that my doctors are not going to be happy with me.

I haven't been following my meal plan. I tried to keep up with it as much as I could, but once Harry rejected me in the coffee shop, I stopped caring about my health. Why did it even fucking matter anyways?

Liam and Niall tried to assure me that it did. That I had all these people rooting me on, and that I owed it to myself to recover so I could get better.

But I didn't want to get better anymore. I just wanted Harry. I wanted Harry, but he didn't want me. How fucking lovely.

In the weeks following the rejection, I went through different phases of emotions. At first, I stayed home from work and cried a ton. Then, I started overthinking everything, and worrying about every syllable I said to him in the coffee shop, analyzing every word of my testimony. And finally, about a week later, I got angry. And I mean really fucking angry.

I was livid.

If I had to describe the feeling, I would probably say that it felt like someone had injected my bloodstream with burning hot lava. Because I was so fucking mad I felt like my skin was on fire.

Harry. Fucking Harry.

The very same person who broke me a few months ago is the same one who's destroying me now. Coincidence? Definitely not.

I started to hate Harry. I hated him for making fun of my weight. I hated him for apologizing, for taking me to the hospital, for sharing his story with me. For making me think that he fucking loved me. That he fucking cared. Because he didn't care. He must not have ever cared. If he did, he wouldn't have done this.

I thought our relationship was strong, that we could survive anything. Distance, evil baby mamas, anorexia. But here I was, sobbing into my hands every night because I gave up everything to save his son, and all he did in return was call me a monster.

I could never get over that part. The fact that Harry could overlook everything I did for him, everything we had been through. That even after I sent multiple apology texts, he ignored them. That even when I told him I loved him, he told me he was certain I didn't.

How could he possibly say that to me? Of course I loved him. Of course I would do anything for him - in fact, I already did.

Over time, the anger started to simmer down, leaving me with a hollow void where my feelings used to be. I guess that void was always there, especially after the breakup. But in the interim, I had stuffed that hole with my hopes and dreams, my wishes that Harry would take me back. My fantasies that we would end up together.

Now, those dreams were torn to shreds, and there was nothing to fill that hole. Nothing but exercise, restricting, dieting. The things that I know are bad for me, but always run back to. Because at the end of the day, they're my only reasons to keep going.

So as I entered my doctor's appointment that fateful Monday, eyes glazed over and lips pursed shut, I nodded my head robotically and listened to all the things wrong with me, all the things I was doing wrong.