Together (Larry Stylinson) ✅

Reaching Out

Louis' Point of View

"Thanks for the ride," I said coldly to Harry after he reached my apartment. The hour long car ride we had just spent together had been anything but pleasant, and I was looking forward to getting as far away from him as possible.

In fact, it wasn't just Harry I was trying to get away from. It was everyone — anyone. I just needed to be alone, which is something I hadn't been able to do since I entered that bloody hospital. Nurses, doctors, Harry... no one could ever seem to leave me alone. Finally I'd be able to just decompress by myself.

"You're welcome," Harry replied with a tense smile. "So I guess this is it? Let me know if you need anything. Please do." I nodded, eyeing him warily as I hopped out of the car. "I will," I said through gritted teeth. I was certain I wouldn't, but this was the only way to get him to leave me in peace.

Harry nodded, his green eyes falling a little, and I closed the door, turning quickly before I could see him drive away. I had never liked goodbyes, especially with Harry.

Frowning, I began to head up to my apartment, opening the door and taking the elevator up to my floor. I fidgeted with my hands as I stood alone in the tiny elevator. After getting trapped in it two times before, I was pretty nervous. But I just didn't have the energy to walk right now.

About a minute later, the elevator dinged and it opened to my floor. After fumbling for my keys in my pocket (Harry had brought them to me), I unlocked the apartment, fully expecting to be greeted with vomit and empty bottles and beer cans. But instead, I found that my apartment was completely cleaned from top to bottom, sparkling almost.

Harry.

Harry always had been the neat freak in our apartment. I wasn't a slob, but I certainly wasn't on his level of perfection and pristine. I grimaced as I thought of the copious amounts of vomit Harry must of cleaned up for me— not to mention how long the vomit had been left sitting there. I was pretty embarrassed. The whole situation just spoke to how much of a train wreck I was.

I walked in to my room, finding that my soiled bedsheets had been replaced with new ones — I still used the same sheets from all those years ago, and Harry must have known exactly where to find the second pair. In my bottom left drawer.

Trying to shake the thought of him, I left the room and closed the door. It had only been a minute in the apartment and I was already going stir crazy. All I wanted to do was run around and burn off these calories and all these pounds I had just gained with the feeding tube.

I didn't have the energy, but that has never stopped me before. At a certain point I can just push past the pain, ignoring my bodies cries for help and forcing myself to torch calorie after calorie. It was something I did often. In fact, it was routine these days.

But as I stood there in my apartment, which had just been cleansed of my vomit, I thought about how I had destroyed my own throat — how I had destroyed my own body and landed in the hospital. And when I got there, they said I had other problems too, also caused by me. Because I wasn't eating.

Fuck. Just fuck. I couldn't do anything right. Even my form of escape was detrimental. This isn't what mum would have wouldn't — she wouldn't have wanted me to fucking kill myself because of grief. And that's not what I wanted either. I really didn't.

A lot of people say you have to hit rock bottom to realize how bad off are you. And once you do that it'll inspire you to change. For Harry, it was when Gemma and I took him to the hospital and he found out how unhealthy he was. For me, it was, well this...

Well I hoped it was this. I hoped it would end here. Because I certainly knew I never fucking wanted another feeding tube in my throat ever again.

And even more than that, I didn't want to be ill anymore. I had spent a year too many as a walking skeleton, 365 days too long without proper nutrition and constant exercise. I wasn't enjoying my life anymore, and I told myself I was grieving at first, but now it seemed to be something even deeper, extending way past the normal mourning phase. Too much time has passed for mums death to be my excuse anymore. I had to move forward now, if not for me, for mum.

So instead of lacing up my sneakers to go on a 7 mile run, I took off my converse and put them next to the door. I was going to eat something. Even If it was the last fucking thing I did today.

It turns out eating was harder than I thought. There was hardly anything in the fridge aside from some bread and a few loose eggs. I decided to make toast. Simple enough. Not too many calories. I popped the two pieces into the toaster and waited for them to toast. Then I grabbed a drink. Something with calories. That's what normal people drink, right? The only caloric drink I had aside from vodka was Ensure Plus, from the last time I briefly attempted eating again. But I was pretty sure the vile taste of the Nutrition drink was the very reason I gave up.

Sighing, I poured myself a glass of water and decided to put peanut butter on my toast for some extra protein. I hadn't eaten peanut butter in years. In fact, the jar was unopened — from a day when I nearly gave up and binged on my favorite food, but decided against it last minute. I rubbed the creamy brown substance onto my bread, allowing it to melt, and tried to convince myself I could do this.

I brought my toast to the table, the place I used to eat at before all this happened. Taking a deep breath, I put a slice to my lips and tried to take a bite, but my stomach was churning and my head was screaming and I couldn't do it.

At this point, my breathing was labored and I was shaking a bit. Was I really having a panic attack over peanut butter? I was so fucking annoyed at this that I decided to just fuck it and forced the slice into my mouth, which essentially resulted in me spitting it out immediately after. I tried again with the same result. Then I tried ripping off a small piece. I put it on my tongue and chewed it gently. I tried another, then another. I continued until both pieces were gone, which took nearly a half hour and ended with me sitting in a pool of sweat and tears in front of the empty plate.

The minute I looked at the empty plate and felt the fullness in my stomach, I immediately wanted to purge. I ran to the bathroom, but told myself I couldn't do this again. My throat was going to get more fucked up. So I took a deep breath, shook my head, and exited the bathroom, grabbing a cigarette to calm my nerves. I stood by the window, smoking, and tried not to cry when I realized how fucked up I was. Honestly, I was worse than Harry had ever been.

When I finished my cigarette, I didn't know what to do. I couldn't lie down or sit or do anything without thinking about purging. It was ironic how all I wanted to do was be alone, but now that I was alone, the solitude was killing me. I didn't want to be by myself with my thoughts anymore. I needed someone — anyone to help me. Anyone but Harry of course.

So, taking another deep breath and mustering up all the courage I could gather, I picked up the phone and called the only person I knew could distract me in a time like this — or at least who used to be able to.

Zayn was an old friend from uni. we went to NYU together and became friends when we both joined the music club second year. Zayn liked pop rock and I liked pop punk, so it was sort of the perfect match. We did a few duets together and even performed with a band a few times. Some of my best memories are with him.

Sadly, I lost touch over with Zayn over the past few years when I stopped going out and started starving. Zayn went to mums funeral and he tried to be supportive. He continuously tried to encourage me to get out of the house, or at least hang out in my apartment and watch a movie. But by the end, I wasn't even able to do that, and Zayn slowly stopped reaching out because I had rejected him too many times. As of right now, we were hardly speaking, and it was mostly my fault. I didn't even remember his birthday this year.

"Louis, I'm trying to do everything I can to help you. But I can't. You have to help yourself," he had told me the last time I saw him a year and a half ago. "Take some time. Reach out when you're ready. I can't stand to see you like this anymore."

As I circled the apartment, attempting to avoid the bathroom, I figured now was as good a time as any to reach out. I hadn't helped myself yet, but I had just made the decision to start doing it. And that had to be something.