You Sunshine, You Temptress (l.s)

All That's Left Of Us

Longer chapter than usual. Hope you enjoy:)

Louis

5 days.

5 days of the absence of his voice being the loudest sound I've ever heard. 5 days since Harry Styles walked out of my life.

I braced myself for the worst to come. I prepared for days of relentless crying until my chest caved in, desperate for an escape which would only come when I'd cry myself into exhaustion, praying that sleep would soon follow, and it did. Sleep would always follow, but the nightmares flashing behind my closed lids would make me never want to close my eyes again.

Day 1 was the hardest..

When I wept into my mother's blouse, lungs pleading for air and eyes spilling like a broken dam. I remember the feeling of trembling on the rug, body heavy, mind racing but calm all at once like a brewing storm, steady and eery despite the chaos approaching on the horizon.

Nobody had the courage to wake me, so I slept right there by the front door. Burning cheek to cool hardwood and a silent yet hopeful prayer that he'd walk back through that door.

He didn't.

But day 1 actually began when I woke the next morning, throat raw and burning like a fragile and withered tree after an insistent wildfire. I walked through the halls of my house, everyone either being really attentive to me like I'd fall apart at the drop of a hat, or afraid to even look at me for too long because when they did, they looked pained. As if the sight of me, numb and empty and haunted, made their stomach churn.

At some point that day, when I wasn't curled into a little ball in some random corner of the house, I decided it'd be a good idea to go to my room. Long story short, after yet another episode of screaming and breaking everything in sight, it was ultimately decided by my dear mother that I, in fact, wasn't yet ready to go into my room.

How could I? Everything in that room is him. The little comb on my dresser he used for his curls, or his baby-pink lint roller he kept next to his favorite black cardigan (I personally find the old thing dreadful, but he insists it's "vintage").

Every single detail, now matter how small, was a constant reminder that he is gone. A consistent, unrelenting drill in the back of my goddamn head that Harry Styles, in all his grace and breathtaking beauty, was mine and now he's not. A dream, nothing more than a blurred vision. Life turned into a painful remembrance of just how mundane and dull the world is without my angel.

Day 2 through 4 blurred together. One moment I was in my stained sweats, trembling and mumbling his name beneath my breath as mum offered food. Then suddenly I was at Zayn's flat, Zayn next to me, holding me while I cried into the expensive leather of his jacket and every pathetic piece that left of me came crashing back down. It didn't last as long though, the joint between my lips and the thick smoke filling my lungs distracted me and seemed to have occupied my time.

Rock bottom and I became well acquainted during days 2 through 4

I took some time apart from my intense self-pity to find out how long it'd take me to get over this. When would he leave my head? When would my chest stop tightening each time I thought of his name? When would I stop seeing his face fly by like a flash of light each time I closed my eyes?

According to a very reliable source (some teen girl magazine that Lottie had on her bookshelf) it should take about 3 months. 3 months and I'll be fine, right?

Turns out that magazine was a load of shit because it's day 5 and I've never felt more fucking alive.

Music rattles the walls surrounding me, sweaty bodies flood the living room, shoving up against me relentlessly as I finish off my 4th cup for the night. I don't know what's in it, I just told Zayn to give me the strongest shit he's got.