Ghost of You || L.H.

9.

"Hey, Niall... Yeah, he's doing alright... No, you don't have to fight anyone... Yes, I'm sure..."

Laughter fills the air around me and I keep my eyes closed. Niall Horan would be offering to fight whoever made me cry on stage. It's just like him.

"He wants to talk to you," Michael says. Based on the proximity of his voice I'd say he's standing over me. I make no move to take the phone from him. "Come on, Luke," he urges when I don't say anything.

I can hear Niall on the line trying to get me to talk to him and I finally groan, peeling my eyes open. Michael's face lights up and he quickly passes his cellphone off to me.

"Don't pretend like you're not happy to hear my voice," is the first thing Niall says and I can't help but let the laugh roll through me. "See? I knew it!"

"How've you been?" I ask, staring at the ceiling above my bunk.

"Don't try to make this phone call about me," he huffs. I can practically see him crossing his arms and tapping his foot. "Why were you crying?" he asks. He really wastes no time getting to the point.

"I'm just in a bad spot right now," I answer as vaguely as I can. Only Mike, Ash and Cal know about what's going on and one Mike actually knows the full story.

"No," he says. "Harry is in a bad spot right now, trying to come out and shit, you are going through something much worse. I can tell."

He's good.

"Harry's coming out?" I ask, trying to move the topic of conversation off myself. "He's gay?"

"Bisexual, stop deflecting," he says, and again, I can just see him crossing his arms and glaring at the wall in front of him like I'm actually standing there.

"Honestly, Niall, I just don't think I'm ready to talk about it..." It's not a lie. I'm really not ready to talk about it. Any of it.

I've spent the last four years of my life with her, with my Emily. And in a single hour I lost my whole world. It's only been a week, I'm allowed to not talk about it yet. I'm allowed to breakdown on stage. I'm allowed to let the memories take over my every waking breath. I'm allowed to feel the pain in my chest.

And I'm allowed to not fucking talk about it yet.

I know they're all just trying to help but it's only been a fucking week. One fucking week. It's okay if I'm not okay yet. I'm allowed to not be okay. I'm allowed to not be fine at all.

The tears roll down my cheeks and I squeeze my eyes shut. I'm so sick of crying. I haven't fucking cried in ages, not since my Gran died when I was ten. And now it's like the tears won't fucking stop coming. I hate them. They make me angry. Which makes me cry more.

I'm a fucking wreck.

"Luke..." His voice sounds as defeated as I feel, and for some reason it makes the tears fall faster.

They run down the same streaks already on my face, one right after the other. I feel them pool around my nose and in the crease of my lips. I feel some slide down my temples as I lie in my bunk. I feel them soak the underside of my chin, falling down into my hairline from every angle.

"I'm so sick of crying," I whisper, rubbing my eyes with the palms of my free hand. "I'm so fucking sick of hurting. I'm so beyond fucking sick of this fucking feeling in my stomach, my chest, my everything."

"I..."

"I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't fucking think straight. I can't do it, Niall. I just fucking can't."

"What happened?" he asks, his voice a whisper through the line. I hear him sniffle and I scold myself for making our little Irish boy cry.

"She's gone," I reply, all emotion devoid from my voice.