Archive of Our Own

After Harry died the days seemed to pass like molasses, clocks that didn’t tick right and nights where I would have done anything to sleep. Nights where I called his cell phone hoping that maybe this time it wouldn’t tell me the number was out of service. In my sleepless delirium I think I convinced myself if I called enough times he’d answer me.

I remember Harry telling me that before he met me he was waiting to die, and for that first month, I did the same. I thought I could convince myself to stop fighting, that I could finally leave hope and sadness behind and not have to feel anything anymore.

I tried for happy, tried for okay and fine and it didn’t work really. I could see it in Danielle’s eyes when she thought I couldn’t see, the fear that I would never stop feeling awful, that they’d never get the old me back, that I’d died with Harry.

I started to get better, I switched treatment and had my own cancer miracle. It should have been too little too late, but it was working better than any of us had hoped. I remember looking at my x rays with the nurse, her smile as she told me I must have a guardian angel watching over me somewhere.

She was more right than she knew.

April 17th

I hear the knock on the door, but it’s a long minute before I can summon the energy to get it. It’s technically Liam and Danielle’s apartment, and I can usually rationalize not answering the door since it’s not my door, since I can’t even afford to pay my rent, but they aren’t home and I can’t just let whoever it is languish in the hallway.

I’ve half convinced myself that if I distract myself with menial tasks, emptying the dishwasher and dusting clean shelves, maybe I won’t feel so guilty about letting my darkness seep into their home. They deserve their own place, but I couldn’t afford to move out even before the endless rounds of treatment, and at this point it’s really only thanks to them I’m not homeless.

I know they don’t mind it, because they’re the best sort of friends, but they shouldn’t have to carry me and my baggage. I have baggage now, I’m one of those people, damaged goods. I carry the sparkle of Harry’s eyes in my stomach, his laugh behind my ear, and cancer in my lungs.

I find Zayn at the door, just like I had those weeks ago when he came with his letter and his sorrow. I feel more alive than I had then, I have blood in my joints instead of creaking emptiness. I can think about the happy parts without wanting to break apart, don’t have to fight back sadness when I think about the way he looked that one night in the snow.

“Fancy seeing you here.” I say, giving him an approximation of a smile. Progress, Liam had said, you just have to make progress.

He shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his varsity jacket. “It’s the anniversary. I didn’t know where else to go.”

I nod, because I never know where to go anymore, where to put my limbs or lay my thoughts so I can stop hurting. My mind is a minefield and some days I step on them all.

After Harry’s death it seemed like everyone was scattered, and through the muted tragedy I became aware that Zayn and I had landed on the same plane. Watching him through the doorway I can feel our understanding like a string stretching between us, holding us to each other and maybe together as well. I haven’t talked to him since the funeral, but I did think of him sometimes when I let my mind wander, did wonder if he was as close to okay as I was.

“I have alcohol and poptarts.” I say. I remember last time, where we’d both stood on the threshold, meeting in the middle to hold each other. This time, I let him in.

He cracks a smile his face seems surprised by. “It’s 3 in the afternoon.”

“Practically cocktail hour.” I reply dryly, leading him into the kitchenette.

“So where are Liam and Danielle, don’t you all live together?” Zayn asks, sitting down at the little table like he belongs there, and I observe him from the counter. He looks thinner than he used to, gauntness shaping his cheeks, and his hair is shoved into a beanie like he couldn’t be bothered to quiff it. He doesn’t look quite so dead anymore, but I know that’s calculated, that we’re both trying to put the light back behind our eyes.

“They’re working. Like real adults.” I say, pulling the box of strawberry poptarts towards me and tossing one to Zayn. “What have you been doing?”

Zayn shrugs, opening the package with careful hands. I can see a tattoo there, a tiny bird on the back of his palm that’s new. “Just at UNI. Figured I couldn’t drop out just ‘cause my best friend died.” He says it so bluntly, but I think he’s being flippant just so he can pretend it doesn’t still hurt. “I heard your treatment is working”

I shrug through a mouthful of crumbs. “That’s what they tell me. Sometimes you get lucky.”

He nods, and we both take a moment for the words I didn’t say. Sometimes you don’t.

“I’m glad.” He says, and we sit in silence for a moment, staring through the window at the clouds rolling around outside. “I was scared we were going to lose you too.”

I stare at him, bringing my knees up to my chin. I did wonder why he never visited after that day, thought maybe I reminded him too much of Harry, that seeing me would only hurt him, but I think maybe it was because he thought if he never let me in losing me wouldn’t hurt so much. “I was pretty sure of that myself.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” He says quietly. “Niall doesn’t understand. He wants to, but he doesn’t.”

I nod, because I think I know. I have a sneaking suspicion that Zayn and I carry darker things inside us than Niall could, that Liam or Harry could. We live in the colder water at the bottom of the pool, only our blood to keep us warm. “Liam and Danielle try.”

Zayn nods, picking at his poptart with pale fingers. “I wish he wasn’t gone.” The darkest parts of me just wish that I could snap my fingers and wish him back into existence, even though I know it would never be as easy as that, that he was irreversibly flawed in ways I didn’t understand until I’d spent too many nights alone. “I miss him.”

“Yeah.” I reply, because that’s all I have left at this point. That’s all it boils down to really, those three words tearing me apart from the inside.

“You know how he used to kiss?” Zayn says, looking down at the table. “Like it was the only thing in the world?”

I nod, and it’s strange because I don’t want to assume but some part of me knows that he never stopped loving Harry like that. I still don’t know why Zayn let me have him, why he settled for Niall and never fought for anything more. I would have fought for him, I would have fought everything in the world and I did, even though it wasn’t enough enough in the end. Maybe that’s why Zayn never did, because he knew it was a losing game.

“He loved so much. He made everyone love him so much.” I reply, staring down at the crumbs in my lap and back up at Zayn.

“I keep thinking of things I want to tell him.” Zayn says, setting his elbows on the table. “I want to tell him how hard everything was after he died because I know he’d make it better.”

“I can’t figure out if talking about it makes it better or worse.” I reply, and I’m almost smiling but I’m not quite sure why, because it hurts but I’m not alone anymore. It was easier to pretend I didn’t need anyone when no one understood, easy to pretend I didn’t need anyone to, but seeing Zayn at my kitchen table, his heart broken in all the places mine is, it’s more important than anything.

“Can’t make it much worse I don’t think.” Zayn says wryly, the shrug never leaving his shoulder. “Holding it in was the worst.”

I nod, fiddling with my fingers and and the ties on my sweatpants, nails bitten down to the quick. “Not being able to explain it was the worst. I still can’t explain it.” There’s a moment where Zayn meets my eyes, and I know I don’t need to put any of it into words, even if I could.

“The amount of people who ask if you’re okay is ridiculous.” Zayn says, and he’s looking up at the ceiling and I’m not sure if it’s so he doesn’t have to look at me or because he’s willing tears out of his eyes. “Like, why would I be okay? Why would you assume that? But you know what answer they want to hear, they just want to make small talk and reassure themselves that everything’s fucking alright.”

I nod, because I’ve told everyone under the sun that I’m fine, that they don’t have to worry about me. I know people have to care, Harry taught me that, but I also know they can’t care forever, that they all have their own lives and eventually they forget, it’s better that way.

“I think Niall’s getting tired of my shit.” Zayn says after a moment of silence, and I think maybe he’s trying not to cry but I won’t call him out on it, won’t break down whatever facade he’s trying to put up.

“That’s not true. He loves you, you know?” I used to be a therapist, I used to be better at this, and now I feel like talking is impossible, like the words stick in my throat. It’s harder when I’m not separated from the sadness, when I’m swimming in it. “It’s hard seeing people you love upset.”

“I just wish I could snap out of it.” Zayn says, and there’s anger there, sadness and regret and a restlessness that scares me. This is all so fucked up. Harry went and fucking died and fucked everything up. “I wish I could forget him for one fucking second.”

“You can’t change how you feel. I gave up on that a while ago.” I reply, because emotions don’t let you choose. And I wish I didn’t have to carry my sadness like a napsack wherever I go, but I don’t regret falling in love with him, don’t regret letting him teach me how to live. “Don’t beat yourself up over things you think you should and shouldn’t feel.”

“But I don’t want to be sad anymore. I’m so fucking sick of being sad.” He says, and I slide off the counter so I can be closer to him, so I can pull some of his hurt out.

“Sad is okay. You’re just going to feel what you’re going to feel. Feeling guilty about it won’t make you any happier.” I say, because I’m not going to tell him it gets better, because that doesn’t help anyone, doesn’t fix anything. Maybe it gets better, maybe we put our lives back where they belong but we have to learn to live with the sadness, how to carry our baggage without breaking our backs. “The sadness isn’t going to go away, you just have to find happiness to balance it out.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Zayn asks, standing up like his body is a livewire, like he has too much inside.

“You’ll figure it out.” I tell him, more because I hope it’s true than anything else, reaching for the kettle and turning it on.

“What was that you said about alcohol?” He says after a long moment, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and leaning against the wall.

“Wine or beer?” I reply, taking two mugs from the cabinet.

He sighs. “Green tea.”

I give him a smile. “We’re going to get through this, you know? It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Of course it’s what he would have wanted.” Zayn says, and this is both the morning Harry and I sat on the tile and pressed our hopes into each other’s skin and the opposite. “He got the easy out. And now we’re here stitching up all the holes he left.” He deflates, hanging his head. “I didn’t mean that.”

I nod, because I know he doesn’t. I understand, I’m angry and sad and pissed as hell because it’s not fair that he went first, that he left us all like this, but I’m glad he never had to know this pain, he never had to know what it was like to have half your hope cut out. He doesn’t have to hurt anymore, and it’s not compensation but it helps. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks up, forehead creased like he’s worried. “Yeah, shoot.”

“Do you want to drink tea and watch cartoons with me?”

He just stares for a moment, all long eyelashes and eyes that say too much. “Does that help?”

I shrug. “Sometimes.”

He shrugs, the smallest bit of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’d love to.”

I pull two tea bags from the cabinet, dropping them in their respective mugs. “Good.”

I pour the tea, letting the water bubble nearly to the rim. I pick mine up, poking at the teabag with my finger as Zayn comes up next to me, blowing at the steam rising slowly from the water.

Today, there’s someone to drink the second cup.

April 26th

I don’t see Zayn again for more than a week, enough time for me to continue trying to master basic cooking skills and go grocery shopping dressed like an actual human being. I allow myself to watch 7 straight hours of the OC as a reward.

It’s Danielle who answers the door sometime after dinner and I can hear their voices in the hall as she invites him in. I have a feeling she’s just glad I’m getting visitors. “Zayn’s here, Lou! Come to the door!”

I shut down my computer, abandoning a game of solitaire as I head for the front room, finding the two of them standing in the hall. Zayn looks better than the last time, and I have the vague impression that he’s trying tonight, though for what I can’t imagine.

“Dropping by for more poptarts?” I joke, mostly for Danielle’s benefit. It’s been hard for her to watch me lose myself and I wish I could be okay for her if no one else.

“Not quite. I wanted to talk.” I feel like there’s another layer here, one he can’t uncover with her watching us like we’re breakable.

“Do you want to go out somewhere? Coffee?” I ask, looking down at my sweatpants and tee shirt. “I could put on jeans or something?”

He nods, running a hand over his scruff. “Yeah coffee sounds good, don’t bother with jeans, it’s fine.”

I turn to Danielle, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “See you later, don’t wait up for me, I probably won’t be out late.”

She returns the kiss, running her hand over my buzz. My hair is slowly growing back from my last round of chemo, but it’s only a matter of time before it’s gone again. It’s a process, always. “Be good.”

I roll my eyes at her, following Zayn back down the hallway and out onto the street. “So what’s up?” I ask, because there’s no reason for him to be here unless something is wrong, all I am is a reminder of Harry.

“Niall and I got in a fight.” He says, kicking at a pebble on the sidewalk as we head to the starbucks on the corner.

“I didn’t know it was possible to fight with Niall. He seems pretty mellow.” I reply, trying to keep things light. I’m still not quite sure how I ended up here, how I ended up with Zayn walking next to me in the darkening evening like we’ve been friends for years.

“Yeah, I didn’t know it was possible to fight with him either.” He grumbles, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets as the breeze picks up. I can see the bags under his eyes when I look closer, a flush to his cheeks like he’s upset.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, because I’m curious and I know what it’s like to keep everything inside. Zayn is a message in a bottle washed up on the shoreline and a love letter lost in the post.

“I think so.” He says, holding the door for me as we head in. It’s warm inside and the smell of coffee hits me like a wave. We both order even though I don’t really want anything, because it’s awkward if we don’t and we’ll have nothing to hold in our shaking hands.

“Did you walk out?” I ask as we sit down at one of the tables for two by the window, passerby barely glancing at us through the glass as they go by.

He nods, taking a sip of chai latte. “He yelled at me. I left.”

I noticed that about him, back when we were reading our letters, the way he never really let his emotions out, let them simmer on the surface and burn his skin. Maybe that’s why he got the bird tattooed onto his hand, because he tries so hard to fly away before anything can hurt him. It makes me wonder if maybe he’ll find something worth fighting for, or if that’s not who he is, if he’ll float around forever, caring so much but not enough.

“You can’t hide from this you know. It’s not going to go away.” I tell him, curling my feet up onto the big armchair I’ve claimed. Hope is sitting on the floor next to me and I curl the little tube around my finger. I wonder if I’ll always need it, if I’ll ever be able to live without the soft speak of it’s wheels following me wherever I go.

“I probably could, to be honest.” He says, and it’s resigned. I understand then that he’s already given up on that relationship too. I wonder if Niall knows, if he understands Zayn’s methods of self sabotage.

“Do you ever wish you’d stayed with Harry?” I ask, because I want to make him stop running away from everything, I want to pin him down like a butterfly against a corkboard and make him feel it.

He shrugs, always the lazy tilt of his shoulders as he pretends not to care. I want to throw something at him, because I can’t run away from my problems, I can’t rip off my oxygen tank and sprint until I don’t have to deal with the cancer anymore. He’s barely even running, just digging himself deeper and letting the world go on without him, waiting for it to leave him behind.

“That’s not an answer.” I tell him, a sharp glint in my eye. And maybe I wouldn’t have done this before Harry died, maybe I would have told him it was okay that he didn’t want to talk about it, but losing people makes your heart get harder and makes you angry where you used to be alright.

“I don’t have to give you one.” He says, and he looks angry too. “It’s not your business.”

“Of course it’s my business. I loved him too. We both loved him and lost him.” I reply, emotion boiling hot in my veins.

He sighs, taking a long sip from his cup. Zayn takes the path of least resistance, all I have to do is make it too hard for him to push me out. He’s complex but so simple too, because he just doesn’t want to hurt anymore, wants to be alright and for everyone else to be alright too, but he doesn’t know how to find the balance between both. “I do and don’t regret it. You were the best thing that could have happened to him.”

“You could have been that for him. It didn’t have to be me.” I say, even though if he had I never would have had a chance to love Harry, we never would have gotten our little infinity. I wouldn’t be here in this coffee shop, and maybe Zayn would be broken beyond repair. I like to hope he’s fixable, even now with the little cracks in his heart, because even though Harry’s gone Zayn shouldn’t have to die with him. “You can’t live your life afraid of getting hurt.”

He shakes his head, a sad kind of smile on his face. I understand him, in a fucked up sort of way, because he can’t live like that, has to save his skin so he doesn’t burn himself out. He’s not selfish, he just knows he breaks easily.

“I wanted to be there for him but it was so awful watching him die like that. And Niall never got it and he still doesn’t but I had to watch as Harry gave up and I didn’t know what to do to make it better, and everyone else stopped coming but I couldn’t, and I cared about him so much and it was so painful for me too. I didn’t want him to know how much it hurt me to see him like that.” Zayn says it all so quietly, in a whispered monotone that feels like needles on my palms. “I hoped I could figure out how to save him.”

“But you couldn’t.” I reply, because I know what thats like, because I wanted to save him too.

He stares out the window at the sunny afternoon, and the weather still looks wrong to me. “You can’t save people.”

“I always try though.” I reply, tapping my fingers on the armrest. I miss working with patients, I miss being able to see them smile at least a little, to help them and let them wash their tears out. I’m better, but not nearly better enough.

He smiles at me, one quick flash of fondness and teeth and it makes my breath stop for a moment, because I haven’t seen him look like that since the bowling alley, since Harry and I were first falling into each other’s orbit and everything was still okay. “I can see why Harry loved you so much.”

I stutter over my words, looking down at the floor and then at my hands, avoiding his eyes so I don’t have to read them. “Pardon?”

“You’re a good person.” He says simply. “You want to help people just because you like to see other people happy. That’s really beautiful, you know. Not a lot of people are like that. I’m not like that.”

“I bet you are.” I tell him, because he has thorns inside but he was the one person who never left Harry, the person who stayed even though it tore him apart.

“Thanks.” He replies, and when I meet his eyes, they aren’t as sad as I remember.

May 17th

I’m going grocery shopping today, because I’m a functioning adult who can purchase food in a normal and mature manner. I’ve even gotten on a pair of my tighter jeans and shoes with actual laces, which means that its a Good Day. I’m trying not to think about the date, trying not to think about how the universe is closing around Harry, how all the spaces he used to take up are filling.

His hospital bed isn’t his anymore, there’s someone else sleeping on it with different sheets. I forgot about him for nearly a day last week, like some horrible reprise of the way he forgot me. I wonder if any of his old school friends still think of him or if he’s faded out of their minds too. They say people die twice, once when their heart stops and a second time when their name is spoken for the last time by the last person who remembers it. I think that every day he comes closer to his second death as the rest of us come closer to our first.

I’m pushing the trolley around the store, oxygen tank in the undercarriage, when I realize that we never went grocery shopping together. It’s so stupid, because there are so many things we never got to do, and they each hit me like raindrops until I’m drowning. I just want one more day with him, one day to go to the beach and push him into the waves, to teach him to ice skate and pick him up when he falls down.

I can feel tears prick at the backs of my eyes, and I don’t understand because every time I feel like I can’t cry anymore I find myself back here, my throat closing up and eyes wet.

I try to wipe my eyes, turning to look at the row of pasta boxes like I’ll be able to keep myself from breaking down that way, but I can feel it crashing over me like a wave, taking everything I have with it.

I’m sobbing before I can help it, and I know it’s stupid but that doesn’t mean I can stop, can’t do anything but let the feelings shake me. I have to get out of here, but I can’t drive home like this, and I’m ringing the only person I can think of from the floor of the supermarket, wondering when this became my life.

Zayn picks up in two rings, and I’m trying to talk to him with a broken voice and he’s murmuring that everything is going to be okay and for a second I almost believe him.

“Don’t hang up on me. I’m going to come get you, alright?” He says, and I can hear Niall saying something in the background and the clatter of keys. My face is wet with tears and I’m just trying to be quiet, turning my body into the shelves so no one has to see.

“I won’t.” I say, heaving in breaths that don’t get quite enough oxygen to my lungs. I’m still crying even though I can’t pinpoint the hurt anymore, can’t swim through the oceans of things that aren’t fair. “I can’t stop- crying.”

“I know. It’s okay.” He says in a soft voice I’ve never heard before, something between comfort and a deep kind of sadness. “I’ll be there soon, okay?”

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “You don’t, you don’t have to come. I don’t even know,” I take a deep breath, cringing when it hiccups in my throat. “I don’t know why I called.”

“Because you need someone.” He says. “Don’t hang up.”

I nod, crossing my arms over my chest like I can keep my insides in that way. I try to calm myself down, try not to think about Harry and all the things we never got to do together, because dwelling on it never helped anyone. I could waste my entire life wishing for things I can’t have anymore, could spend an entire lifetime wishing Harry back and it wouldn’t make any difference. He’s been gone too long, has lost his place in the world. Sometimes I’d like the universe to swallow me up too, for all my places to fade away as well.

“You still there?” Zayn asks, the roadnoise in the background making his voice fuzzy.

“Yeah.” I say, and I can’t stop crying. It’s a strange kind of helpless because my body won’t let me tell it what to do, won’t let me stop the tears from rolling down my face. I’m beginning to think I don’t want to, that I want to cry myself out right here.

“What aisle are you in?” Zayn asks a few minutes later. “I’m inside.”

“Pasta.” I say, and I’m laughing just as much as I’m crying at this point, because it’s so stupid really, it’s stupid that I’m crying and it’s stupid that he died and we’re all just idiots trying to patch up a ship that’s going to end up at the bottom of the sea anyway.

“Best place for a cry, really.” He says, and there’s laughter there, and when I spot him at the mouth of the aisle with his phone to his ear I’m smiling through my tears and he’s smiling back.

“This doesn’t usually happen.” I tell him, as he ends the call and sticks his phone in his back pocket.

He fishes a bundle of tissues out his pocket, handing them to me with a small shake of his head.

“Everyone is going to think I’m mental.”

“So?” He asks, reaching out a hand for me to take. “Come on. We’re going home.”

I stare at him for a long moment, at his hand, back at the half filled trolley behind me. “But what about the food?”

He shakes his head, leaning down to put my oxygen tank on the floor and grabbing my hand. “I’m sure you can survive a day or two.”

“I can never come back here now, I’ve ruined this supermarket for myself.” I tell him, wiping my tears away with the tissue and holding tight to his hand with the other.

“You’ll have to wear your sunglasses so they don’t recognize you.” He teases, squeezing my fingers as he leads me out of the store. I can feel his presence solid beside me and it’s comforting, the way he stares defiantly at anyone who dares to look twice at us.

“They’ll make an announcement when I walk in the store,” I joke, leaning into his side for comfort. He still smells like smoke and something vaguely lemony, and it’s a smell that’s starting to feel familiar and a little bit safe. “The guy who had a breakdown in the pasta is back, someone escort him out before he can make another scene.”

“He might be violent.” Zayn continues, leading me out the automatic doors. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t get his hands on any of the coconuts.”

I laugh, and it’s sniffly and sad but it’s there and that’s enough for me. I can still feel the sadness deep in my bones, I always can, but it doesn’t press as hard on my chest as it used to. I can’t tell if it’s lighter or if my body has learned to live with it.

“You really didn’t have to do this.” I tell him as he walks me to my car.

“If you thought you could call me crying and not have me come, you’ve vastly misjudged what I do and do not have to do.” He says, opening my door like some proper gentleman. “Is everything alright? I never really asked.”

I nod, sticking my hands in my pockets. I feel less watery now, a little more in control of my body, less like I’m going to fall apart. “I was just thinking about him. About all the things we never got to do.”

“I told him we’d travel America together when we graduated UNI. A big road trip thing, coast to coast. We never did.” He says, and his tone is light like he doesn’t want it to bother him, but I know it does.

“New York. I wanted to go New York with him.” I say, a sad little smile twisting on my face. “I don’t even know why he wanted to go. But he did.”

“I didn’t understand half the things he wanted.” Zayn says, and we’re both standing in my open car door like we both know we should go but can’t leave.

“I’m glad I wasn’t the only one.” I reply, and I’m sad inside but thinking about these parts of him make me happy, make it almost okay, because I’m not going to forget for good, not for a long time, and neither is Zayn.

“Are you going to be able to make it home, or should I drive you?” He asks, lifting my oxygen tank for me and placing it in the passenger seat before I can manage it.

“I’ll be fine, I’m not as helpless as I look.” I tell him, and my half grin almost feels natural.

“I never said you looked helpless.” Zayn says, stepping back so I can slide into the seat. “See you soon, then?”

“Yeah. Feel free to call if you ever start bawling in a public place.” I pause, tacking a bit more onto the end of the sentence like an afterthought. “Or, you know, if you want to talk.”

He nods, and I know this won’t be the last time I see him, because somehow he’s become someone important, someone who makes everything a little more stable.

I think maybe I need that.

June 4th

It becomes something like a habit as the days grow longer and warmer. Zayn drops by when he and Niall are having their fights or when I feel the weight of loss too heavy on my chest, and it’s awful but somehow poptarts and cartoons make the hurt a little bit less. Zayn makes it hurt a little less too.

“Bad one this time?” I ask him, leading him out into the living room. Danielle and Liam are making pancakes and breakfast sausage for breakfast-for-dinner-day and the whole house smells like lazy Sunday mornings even though it’s Monday night.

“Not the worst.” He says, and I’m beginning to think maybe this is an excuse. I don’t know what Zayn and I are, don’t know how to quantify it except that when I had chemo a few days ago he came and watched reality TV with me on the couch while I drifted in and out of consciousness. I don’t remember him leaving, only waking up with a pillow tucked under my head and a blanket pulled over me.

“That’s good. Are things, you know, getting better?” I ask him, running a hand over my nearly smooth head, all the hair I’d grown gone again.

He shrugs, sitting down on the couch and pressing his feet into the crack between the cushions. “Not sure anymore. I don’t know.”

I join him, curling a blanket over my shoulders. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, and he never looks happy on these days. “Sure.”

“Why are you still with him?”

There’s a shrug, a quiet sort of resignation in his eyes. “Because I care about him.”

I nod, taking a slow breath in and then out again. “Yeah, I know you do. He’s a great guy, you two were great together.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks down at the carpet like it’ll tell him what to say. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he can sort out all the tangled arteries in his heart. I think he does love Niall on some level, always will, because Zayn loves everyone a little bit, but I wonder when he’ll figure out that it isn’t enough. Sometimes you can love someone so much it fills up your lungs and makes you feel like everything finally makes sense but it’s still not enough. I know a lot about that.

“I think there are pancakes in the kitchen.” I tell him. “I’m sure Dani and Liam will share.”

He nods, standing up with a sigh. “Pancakes sound good.”

I follow him, wishing I could give him more than this. I want to give Zayn the sun and the way candy floss tastes in the summer and everything warm I can think of to patch the hole in his chest, to fill it up with better things.

After everything, it’s the least we deserve.

June 10th

He shows up in the afternoon with a bottle of wine and eyes rimmed red with tears, murmuring something about ‘not wanting to bother Ni about it’ as he curls up on the edge of my bed. We drink until evening and try not to cry until we can’t anymore, and then cry until we can’t do that either.

June 15th

I’m not surprised when he tells me, and it feels like a wave finally breaking on the shore instead of hurricane. He comes over late, warning me with a text message that would have woken me up if I’d been asleep by midnight, and I meet him at the door in my sleep shirt and boxers, tired circles under my eyes

We’re watching television quietly, Friends reruns playing with the volume low enough that it won’t wake Danielle and Liam, blankets wrapped around our shoulders and cups of tea in our palms.

I can feel what he isn’t telling me creeping between us like water from a leaking dam and I don’t ask him because I know he’ll tell me eventually. He’s like Harry in that way, because neither of them could keep their emotions inside, their feelings always crawling out like shadows in the evening.

“Niall and I decided to end it.” He says during a commercial break, taking a sip of his tea after he says it like he’s trying to soothe the words away.

“I’m sorry.” I tell him, and I am, even though it’s been coming forever.

“Me too.” He says, and then, “He said it was too hard to be with me anymore. He says it’s like I’m still in love with Harry.”

There’s a pause that seems to stretch on so long I wonder if we’ll ever end it before he speaks again, quieter. “I don’t think I’m in love with Harry.” There’s a subtext there but I don’t know what it’s saying and I wonder if I want to know, if I want to read all the things Zayn has printed on his bones. I think maybe I do, want to comb through all his footnotes until I have him memorized.

“He’s going to move out. It was my flat I guess. But it’s going to be awful without him.” He says it in a whisper, and I think about him all alone in his apartment, missing half of everything that used to belong there.

“I know. You can visit here whenever you want.” I tell him, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

He shrugs, threading our fingers together so I can’t pull back. “I do that anyway, don’t I?” He says, sadness coloring his tone.

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” I tell him, and I’m paraphrasing, because what I mean is that I get lonely in the afternoons and I don’t like to eat lunch alone and I like the way he smiles on the days he’s happy. “I like you here.”

“I like it here too.” He says, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face like he’s trying to make the whole thing feel a little less heavy. “I’m want to redecorate. The entire place reminds me of him.”

“If you take me to IKEA we can buy all the adorable swedish lamps you want.” I tell him, punctuating my sentence with a yawn.

“Not sure how many adorable swedish lamps the apartment actually needs, but a new chair would be nice.” He says, pulling a blanket down and throwing it over our shoulders, scooting closer to me so we both fit.

“A few new rugs never hurt anyone. I don’t even know what your apartment looks like.” I say, leaning into him because I’m tired enough not to wonder if we’ve crossed with boundary yet.

“Small. Dilapidated.” He throws an arm around me, staring at the tv screen. He’s warm in the air conditioned living room, a soft body to hold close. It feels like so long since I’ve let anyone hold me like this; after Harry died I started pushing Danielle and Liam away, shied away from their touches until they noticed and gave me space. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but for the first month everything felt a little bit wrong and I wanted to curl up inside myself and not feel. Everything was too much and I was still having trouble pulling out of that, acclimating myself to the world.

I curl up against him, breathing in his lemon smokiness and just letting myself be in his presence. I want to curl up in his lap and sleep there, and I think that might be weird, but I’m just so tired of being lonely, of locking myself in this apartment with only myself for company.

“Next time I’m going to visit you.” I tell him, exhaustion making my words fumble together. “So you don’t get lonely.”

“You need to sleep.” He tells me, running his fingers over my scalp.

“Yeah, probably. You do too. It’s late.” I sit up, yawning so wide my eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. “Are you going to go home? You can sleep here if you want.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.” He says, standing up and shutting off the TV, leaving us in near darkness.

“The couch is good for sleeping, I’ll get you a pillow from my room.” I tell him, tugging my oxygen tank down the little hallway to my bedroom and back again, tossing Zayn one of my many pillows.

He looks down at it. “Thanks.”

I give him a smile. “Sleep well.”

He smiles back, curling the blanket over his shoulder. “You too.”

I do.

June 20th

We go to IKEA as soon as Zayn has a bit of time off from the coffee shop he works at, and I realize it’s the farthest I’ve gone from the apartment since Harry died. I don’t quite know how to feel about that, there’s some sadness there, something like regret. I’ve wasted away two months of my life waiting for him to come back, to crawl home and into the spaces I kept open for him. I think maybe this is a sign that I need to let them close, let him fall out of the earth and stitch up the cavity I left for him in my heart.

“What do you think of this?” Zayn asks, holding up a big plush snake and wrapping it around his neck like a scarf.

“You’ve achieved fashion greatness, Zayn, truly.” I tell him, letting a smile color my tone. I want to be happy. After all this, I just want to be happy.

Zayn gets a cart and we push it around the store and pick up sunshine yellow bedsheets and red plastic tablewear and a big paper lamp that stands three feet tall. We have an impromptu pillow fight in the bedding section until an employee side eyes us so hard we run up the escalator.

“I should get out more.” I tell him over lingonberry soda and meatballs, adjusting the beanie on my head.

“We are out.” He says, making a face at me. “We’re out at this lovely store.”

“Yeah, but this is the first time I’ve been anywhere other than the grocery store in forever.” I tell him, spearing a meatball with my fork. “I’m a hermit. I’ve turned into a hermit.”

“Well maybe next week we’ll go clubbing.” He says dryly. “You, me, and your oxygen tank.”

“That sounds like a band.” I tell him. “We should form one. I can sing vocals and you can play drums.”

He just stares at me for a long moment, deep brown eyes calculating like he’s actually trying to understand half the things I say. “You’re nonsensical.”

“You’re a damp rag.” I tell him, sticking my tongue out. “If we were at a fun party I would be the party hats and the birthday cake and you’d be the box of socks.”

“Why is there a box of socks at a party?” He asks, laughing even as he tries not to. “Who brings a box of socks to a party?”

I lean towards him so our noses are nearly touching. “Exactly.”

He laughs, his whole face crinkling up into a smile as he kicks me under the table. “You’re not funny and I hate you.”

“But you’re laughing!” I inform him, reaching over to pinch his cheek while simultaneously protecting my glass of soda as he tries to hit me.

“Only so you don’t feel badly about yourself.” He says snootily, and I realize it’s been a long time since I felt happy enough to joke around like this, since I could remember how to make anyone laugh, much less myself.

I want to thank him for taking me out, for giving me an excuse to leave the apartment and helping me find the bits of me that I’d lost somehow, but I don’t want to ruin this, cover us in solemnity and sadness. I’m so tired of that, so tired of being sad all the time so I just grin over at him and hope that says enough. “I appreciate your concern for my self esteem, Zaynie.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, but his eyes are all crinkly and there’s a grin on his face and I can’t remember him ever looking like this, so bright and soft and happy.

I wonder if it’s for me.

xx

Liam and I are having a night out, both of us eating lo mein out of enormous plastic bowls at the chinese place on the corner. He’s got a mischievous glint in his eye and even though he’s been letting me blabber on about my IKEA adventure with Zayn and just how strongly I feel about the show Four Weddings, I can tell he’s got something to tell me.

There’s a lull in the conversation when he breaks the news, his eyes going all bright as he says the words. “I’m going to propose to Dani.”

It takes a most of my control not to choke on my noodles as I process the information. “Oh my god are you serious?” I ask him once I’ve cleared my airway of chinese food, leaning as far across the table as I can manage. It feels like all of my emotions are swirling around in my chest, sadness because Harry never got a wedding, regret that we never got time to think about that, but an overwhelming joy for Liam and Danielle who love me just as much as Harry did because they deserve a happy ending more than anyone I know.

Liam hasn’t stopped smiling, and I know that feeling, the one where you love someone so much you can’t keep the grin off your face when you think about them. “I don’t think she knows. I bought a ring though.”

“Liam!” I yell, only bringing my voice down once I remember that we’re in a public place and yelling is not a socially accepted behavior. “Liam you went ring shopping and you didn’t even bring me, god damnit.”

He blushes, shrugging his shoulders. “It was a snap decision, I’d been thinking about it for a while and I was coming home from class yesterday and I just, I bought a ring.”

“Do you have it with you?” I ask, wondering if I look as excited as I feel.

He nods, reaching into his wallet and pulling the ring out of the coin pocket. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

It’s thin and delicate, a small band of silver wrapping up a sparkling diamond, the setting carved so it almost looks like a silver tree branch, and I know it’s perfect the second I lay eyes on it.

I nod enthusiastically, running my finger reverently over the smooth surface. “She’s going to love it, Li.”

Liam nods, his smile going all warm. “I hope so.” His eyes flick down the table and back up to mine. “I was wondering, if she says yes-” He holds up a hand when I go to protest, kicking my shin under the table. “I said, if she says yes, I wanted to know if you’d be the best man.”

There’s a moment where I’m legitimately afraid I’m going to topple out of my chair. “Are you serious?”

He nods. “Who else would I choose?”

I shrug, trying to pull a better name out of thin air but coming up with nothing. “Fuck, I don’t know.” I reply, a smile on my face I can’t seem to fight. “This is amazing. You guys are wonderful together, I’d be honored to be your best man.”

Liam smiles, the sun and all the stars in his eyes. “If she says yes.”

“You mean when.”

He just smiles.

June 22nd

She says yes.

June 25th

“I feel like I’m in a gross little love nest. They won’t stop making eyes at each other.” I whine, laying face down on Zayn’s table as he makes noodles. “It’s so cute I want to throw up.”

“Poor Louis.” Zayn says, stirring the lazily boiling water and drawing a tear down his face with a finger. “Hiding at my place and eating my food.”

“You’re the one who said I could come over whenever I wanted.” I protest, and I’d throw something at Zayn except that the only things on the table are papers and I’m fairly sure those wouldn’t throw very well.

“I’m regretting it more every minute.” Zayn replies, scrubbing a hand through his messy black hair. He’s stopped quiffing it lately, just letting it grow around his face. It makes him look softer somehow, and I wonder if it’s an echo of how he looks in the mornings, scruffy hair and heavy lidded eyes.

“Not true.” I reply, because I know that Zayn hates being in his apartment alone, hates the way it’s still with only him to fill it up. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do when they actually get married. I can’t keep living with them.”

“Not feeling the love?” Zayn asks, leaning against the counter and sticking his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, turning his kind brown eyes on me.

“I just don’t want to impinge on their happiness, they should get their own place.” I tell him, because it’s not fair for them to have to take care of me. “But I can’t rent anywhere by myself, not with my medical bills.”

“I mean, it’s technically your apartment too.” Zayn says, the teasing glint leaving his eyes. “I know them, Lou, they don’t mind. Getting married won’t change anything.”

I shrug, because that’s not the problem really, the problem is that I’m sitting in the middle of everyone else’s lives because mine has stopped. “I know, but they deserve their own place. And I’d move back home, but my mom can barely keep up with my sisters, I don’t want to do that to her.”

Zayn pauses for a moment, tracing the lines of his bird tattoo with his fingers. “You could move in with me.”

I look up at him with a start, refusals already on my lips. “I can’t just move in with you, I can’t pay rent.”

“Yeah, well I’m the only one paying rent right now, it’s not any different.” He says, shrugging his shoulders like this is a casual thing, like I can just move into his apartment and into his life and have that be okay.

I shake my head frantically. “You don’t want me as a roommate. I can’t cook, or clean, and when I have chemo I literally throw up for like, two days afterwards.”

“I don’t care.” He says, turning back to the pasta like he hasn’t even registered my own personal upheaval. “It gets lonely. I miss cooking for two.”

“I can’t just move in with you.” I tell him matter of factly. “I would feel like I’m intruding on your life. I’ve already done that to too many people.”

He picks up the strainer, pouring the noodles over it and letting the water wash down the drain in a rush of steam. “I don’t care. I already told you, I don’t care.”

“But why don’t you care?” I ask him, wishing I could go over there and squeeze the answer out of him because Zayn makes less sense the more I try to figure him out. He’s empathic and incredibly kind in the simplest ways but he’s also angry and tired in a way he almost hides and I know why he’s like that, how Harry made him that way, but I wish he didn’t have to be.

“Because I like you.” He says simply. “And you’re lonely and I’m lonely and I don’t see why you won’t just let me do this for you.”

“You don’t have a guest bedroom.” I tell him, like maybe I can logic him out of this one. I know it’s a good idea, maybe even a great one, because Zayn always felt like the safest thing, but I almost can’t believe he’s serious, can’t believe anyone would want me.

“I have a very nice pull out couch.” He tells me with a shrug, like this isn’t a big deal, like me living with him is as simple as me telling him yes. “And I mean, you could buy a bed if you wanted.”

“No.”

“No you don’t want to buy a bed or no you don’t want to burden me with your miserable presence?” He asks, giving me a stern look. His gaze is sharp in a way I can’t quantify, flecks of exhaustion and something like sadness in his gaze. “You’re so fucking difficult, just let me do this for you. You’re just like Harry, you know, you can’t fucking let anyone do anything for you.” He sags a bit once he’s done, shrugging his shoulders in defeat as he spoons the pasta into bowls. There’s a heaviness in his limbs and I want to press my arms around his waist and make him feel lighter, less tangled inside.

“Okay.” I tell him, tapping my fingers on the table.

“Okay you’ll live with me?”

I nod, relief curling up in my chest as I do. It won’t kill me to let him care, to let him give me this. “Yeah.”

He nods matter of factly, like he never doubted my answer for a moment. “You can move in whenever you like.”

Sitting at the scratched up table, Zayn pouring marinara sauce over the pasta, his apartment already feels a bit like home.

July 10th

We start to fall into a routine about a week after I move in. Zayn works at the coffee shop a few blocks down on weekends and some weekdays and I watch bad tellie when he’s not home and sometimes make cookies and brownies in his tiny oven so the apartment smells like chocolate. We talk over dinner and into the nighttime on the kitchen floor, about small things and big things and the things he sees when he walks home that remind him of me.

It’s a Tuesday when my cell phone rings, the screen flashing a number I haven’t seen in a long time. I pick up, the voice just as I remember.

“Mr. Tomlinson, it’s Francine, I’m not sure if you remember me, I’m Olly’s mother?” She begins, and I mute the television.

“Of course I remember you, Olly was one of my favorite patients. How’s he doing?” I realize with a pang how much I’ve missed him, what a special little kid he is, and I suddenly regret having to drop out of his life.

She sighs, and it’s happy and sad all at the same time. “He’s doing well. Everything is pretty up in the air right now. I heard you were doing better though?”

“Yeah, I went on a new treatment and it started working. A lot of it is chance, I think.” I wish I could say I felt lucky, that by getting better I was winning some grand game against life instead of just trying to get by.

“Of course.” She replies, and it’s comforting to at least know she understands. “I have a favor to ask of you actually, I was wondering if you’d mind seeing Olly. He’s been asking after you for ages now and I think it would make him really happy.”

“I’d love to.” I’m surprised to realize how much I want to see him again, how much I’ve missed all my patients while I wrestled with my own demons. “If you wanted to bring him to my apartment? Or I could visit you? I’m not currently employed to be honest.”

“I don’t want to burden you, I could drop him off and pay the normal amount for maybe an hour or two?” There’s something in her voice like she thinks I won’t actually say yes, like I could possibly have anything better to do.

“I’d love to, honestly.” I tell her, and it’s the truth.

“It means a lot to both of us, I promise you. And if it’s not too much trouble, do you think your friend could come too? The one in the wheelchair? Olly says he has more pictures to give him.”

My heart stops beating in my chest for a moment as I trip out of the world for the second I forget to hold onto all my molecules. The one in the wheelchair, not even the one with the curls or the green eyes like misty lights. In the end he became his cancer and it kills me. “He, he’s no longer with us. But I, Olly could still bring the drawings. We could bring them to Harry together.”

I can hear the catch of her breath over the receiver. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

“It’s alright. You didn’t know.” I tell her, and I know she never meant it to hurt, that Harry would have loved to come if his death hadn’t gotten in the way. “I’d love to see Olly again, whenever is convenient for you.”

“Saturday maybe? At noon or so?”

“Sure, yeah that would be awesome. If you could drop him off at mine, maybe?”

She makes a small noise of agreement. “I could be back to pick him up by two?”

“Of course.” I tell her, and I’m already excited to see Olly, to walk around with him in the summer air because he reminds me of all the best parts of Harry, the way he lit up when he met Olly, the way he brought out the happy parts of him.

I think maybe seeing Olly again could bring out all the happy parts of me too.

July 14th

Zayn is pouring coffee into his travel mug and tea into mine when I hear Olly and his mother at the door. He has his own little oxygen tank sitting by his feet, a tiny mirror of mine, and I feel absurdly protective of him, a rush of fondness breaking a smile across my face.

“You look well.” Francine says, looking just as tired as she always has, the sort of exhaustion that comes from caring about people, where you put so much of yourself into them that you don’t always have enough for yourself. I understand that, understand that sometimes other people need our love more than we do.

“It’s a good day.” I tell her, a smile on my face before I even have to try and push it. It’s sunny for once, nearly cloudless blue skies overhead and summertime in my empty bones. “This is my roommate, Zayn.”

She nods, and it’s so strange to be here again, standing with her on one side of the doorway and me on the other. Last time, Harry was here with me. “Nice to meet you.” She smooths out the front of her blouse, ushering Olly inside. “You’ll be fine without me, right love?”

He nods enthusiastically, his eyes practically glowing as he looks up at me. I have the vague impression that he’s waiting for his mother to leave so he can pounce on me. “Yes mummy.”

She nods, kissing him quickly on the forehead. “I’ll be back at two. Have fun, darling.”

He heads inside on awkward legs as his mother closes the door behind him, a grin stretching across his face as he throws his arms up high around my waist. “Hi mistah Lou!”

I wait until he’s let me go to bend down to his eye level, shaking one of his hands. He looks older than I remember, but not by much, his face still round and blue eyes even rounder. “How’re you doing today?”

He shakes my hand enthusiastically, his little fingers wrapping around my palm. “Good.” I can still hear the lisp on his tongue and it makes me happy in a sentimental sort of way. “Where’s Harry?”

I heard Zayn’s sharp little intake of breath, and try to school my features into anything other than sadness. “Didn’t your mum tell you?”

He shrugs, pulling his bright red backpack off his shoulders and setting it on the wood floor. “She said he was gone and that we were going to go visit him.” He reaches into his backpack, pulling out three pictures, each meticulously colored, a hopeful look on his face. “He said I was good at coloring and so I, I wanted to give these to him. I thought he’d like them.”

I sit down on the floor, suddenly too tired to hold myself up. Olly follows suit, watching me like a hawk. I can see the furrow in his brow as he processes my reactions, the way his face screws up because he knows something is wrong but he doesn’t know what. “Olly, do you know what happens when people get very sick and their bodies don’t work anymore?”

He nods, holding the pictures so tightly in his little hands the edges crinkle. “They die.”

I nod, reaching out to take the pages from him, smoothing out the wrinkles and taking his hands in mine, swinging them back and forth. “Well Harry was very sick. And his body stopped working like it should.”

His face falls completely, his grip on my hands going tight, all traces of a grin falling from his face. “Harry’s dead?” He asks, and it’s incredulous, like in his world people don’t die. “But he can’t be.”

I nod, and I feel all wrong and choked up inside and it’s not numb sadness but the sort of sharp pain of injustice, because it’s still so hard to believe he’s gone. “I’m sorry, baby.”

He screws up his face, a pout on his lips. “But you loved him.”

“I know.” And some part of me still wishes that could have been enough.

“Lou, can I have my hands?” He lisps out quietly, tugging his fingers out of my grip.

“You don’t want to hold my hands?” I ask, folding them in my lap and looking over at him.

He shakes his head, reaches up to scrub his hands over his face. “No, I just have things in my eyes.”

“Me too.” I tell him, taking a deep breath and willing my eyes dry. I hear Zayn cross the kitchen, sitting down to me and taking my hand in his. He doesn’t say a word, just watches me with a quiet comfort in his eyes.

“We can visit him if you like.” He says to Olly after a long moment. “You can leave your drawings for him, they’re very good.”

Olly nods. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

Zayn stands up, pulling me with him and offering his free hand to Olly. “I’m Zayn. It’s nice to meet you.”

Olly examines the hand for a long moment, returning his drawings to his backpack and putting his own hand into Zayn’s palm. “Did you know Harry?”

He nods, and he’s better at this than I am, keeping his face schooled into something that doesn’t betray how much this hurts, but I’m getting better at reading his tells. “Harry was my best friend.”

Olly studies him for a moment, a barely there smile reaching across his face. “Nice to meet you. Are you taking care of Louis now?”

He says it so innocently that I smile before I remember than I’m supposed to be sad.

Zayn smiles down at him, meeting my eyes for the smallest moment. “Not that Louis needs taking care of, but yes.”

Olly shrugs, starting to pull Zayn towards the door. “Everyone needs someone to take care of them.”

Holding onto Zayn’s hand to anchor me, I think he’s far wiser than he knows.

xx

Harry’s grave is at the top of a hill in the sunshine. There’s a tree nearby, but I’m glad he didn’t end up in the shade, the grass above his body warm and green. I haven’t been here since the funeral because I know that it’s only his body there under the soil, that he’s been gone for a long time. Even though I like to hope he’s watching over me from somewhere, I know I’ll never be able to find him again.

Standing here with Zayn, my legs tired from climbing up the hill, the sun warm on my face, I think maybe I just didn’t want this to be any more real.

“This is a nice place.” Olly says, looking around at the markers and walking slowly forward, planting himself in front of Harry’s gravestone like it’s Harry sitting there instead of a block of stone. “He’d like it. Definitely.”

“I think so too.” I tell him, even though Harry never liked to dwell on death, never liked to think about it at all. I wonder sometimes what he would have done if I’d died first, if he would have done better than I had or if it would have destroyed him completely.

Olly is murmuring something to the gravestone, pulling out his drawings and setting them neatly against the granite, a serious look on his face.

I can feel Zayn’s presence as he steps up behind me, his hand brushing mine. I wrap my fingers through his and tug him closer, leaning my head against his shoulder.

“You okay?” He whispers, low enough that Olly won’t hear, and I nod.

“Surprisingly so.” I tell him, taking a deep breath of the flowery air. I think I might be running out of sadness, and I wonder if that can happen to a person.

“Good.” He says, squeezing my fingers in his. “He’s adorable.”

I nod, letting myself grin. “He’s the best.”

I look over, watching the way Zayn’s eyes have gone soft at the sight of him arranging his pages, quiet lisping murmurs leaving his mouth like he thinks Harry might answer him. “I’ve always wanted kids.”

“Yeah, me too.” I say softly, and everything about this moment feels right somehow, the pastel blue of the sky downy like bluebird wings and the way the leaves of the trees rustle when the wind blows through them. Smoke lingers in Zayn’s tee shirt but it smells like summer and indescribably warmth and breathing feels easy.

Standing there, I forget what it feels like to be broken.

July 16th

It’s a few days later when I decide I’m going back to work. I spend an entire monday sitting at the front table calling my old patients while Zayn reads at the chair across from me. I end with a relatively decent schedule and a weight I didn’t even know was there lifted off my chest.

July 29th

I can barely believe the words when they come out of the doctor’s mouth, can’t seem to apply them to myself. “What do you mean, don’t need it?”

He smiles, tapping his pencil against his clipboard. “Since the cancer is in remission your lungs have healed significantly and after our tests last week, we decided you don’t need the tank anymore.”

“Like, at all?” I can’t seem to wrap my head around it, my hand gripping Hope possessively like they’re asking to cut off one of my limbs.

“You should definitely keep it with you at night, since your blood oxygen levels drop while you sleep, but you should be alright as long as you don’t exercise too heavily.”

I stare down at Hope, taking the little nubbins out of my nose experimentally. “I feel like I’m going to die without it to be honest.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’ll be just fine, I wouldn’t advise you to stop using it regularly if I wasn’t sure.”

I smile, untangling myself from the little rubber tubes. My body feels strange without them, but it’s a good sort of strange, like going underwater for the first time on a hot day or the first sip of lemonade. It shouldn’t be this simple, not needing Hope anymore, but I understand now that it’s all very simple, that I’m becoming my own person. I became my cancer and I’m becoming myself again.

All of me is healing now.

August 1st

“Louis, are you ever going to buy a bed?” Zayn asks as we brush our teeth next to each other, our reflections slightly distorted by the grimy mirror.

“I might sleep on the pull out couch forever to be honest.” I tell him, reaching past him to dry my hands off.

“I still don’t support that.” He says, spitting in the sink and shoving his toothbrush back in the elephant cup. “You literally pay just as much rent as I do. It’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.” I tell him as he strips off his tee shirt and lays it in the corner. He’s so skinny, and I reach over to press my fingers into the spaces between his ribs just because I can.

“You need to eat more.” I tell him, pressing against his rib bones like they’re piano keys. He glares down at me, but he never moves, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead.

“I eat the same amount as you.” He tells me, picking my hands off of his chest and resting them on the counter.

“No you don’t, because you smoke and cigarettes are appetite suppressants.” I tell him, because I’ve been trying to get Zayn to quit since July and he refuses because apparently having a roommate with lung cancer isn’t good enough motivation.

“We’re not having this argument right now.” He tells me, washing his hands and starting for his bedroom.

I follow him, jabbing my fingers into the soft parts of his hips and laughing gleefully when he tries to wriggle away from my touch. “We’re always having this argument. And the one about who washes the dishes after dinner, and the one about who lost all the vowels for the scrabble game, oh that was you, and the one about who forgets to turn off the tv, meaning you.”

He turns, grabbing my wrists in his hands. He’s surprisingly strong for someone so lithe, pulling me across the hall into his bedroom and spinning me in circles like we’re ballroom dancing. “Oh do you mean the one about who never does their washing, meaning you, or the one where someone always leaves their dirty dishes on the floor, also meaning you, or maybe even the one where someone refuses to get up until I’ve made their tea, meaning you-”

I tackle him backwards on his bed, yelling the first thing I can think of so he’ll be quiet, which is a mixture of his name and the word rude. “You’re so mean.” I tell him earnestly, making the ugliest face I can at him.

“Shut up.” He tells me, crawling out from under me and sliding under his covers. Zayn’s bed is enormous, a remnant of when he shared this apartment with Niall, a lamp and a bedside table on each side like it’s meant for two.

“Oh so now you’re the victim?” I ask him, laying down next to him on the covers.

He reaches out to pat me on the head, looking up at the ceiling. “I’m always the victim.”

“Weren’t you telling me you were Superman yesterday?” I ask him, rolling into his side with a yawn.

“I think I said Captain America.” He corrects, looping an arm around my shoulders. “You decided you were Wonder Woman because you’re of the erroneous belief that you could pull off that skirt, which you can’t.”

“I could. If I wanted to.” I tell him matter of factly, because I have fantastic legs and a fantastic bum and if I wanted to be Wonder Woman I could and I would look fabulous doing so.

“Go to sleep.” He tells me, flicking off the lamp on his bedside table.

“I can’t. I don’t have my oxygen tank and this isn’t my bed.” I tell him, my voice only slightly muffled against the comforter.

He lets out a deep sigh, getting up and padding out of the room, leaving me in near complete darkness. “Zayn?” I call, not moving from where I’ve starfished myself out on his sheets. “What are you doing you fucking lunatic?”

I hear the roll of wheels on wood before I see him, and it’s only after he presses the tubes into my hands that I register what he’s done. “Now you can go to sleep.” He tells me crawling back under the covers and cuddling into his pillow.

“But this isn’t my bed.” I protest halfheartedly, sticking the nubbins in place.

He sighs deeply in the darkness. “It is.”

I don’t answer, just crawl underneath the covers next to him, my feet knocking against his knees as I get comfortable. It feels better somehow, sleeping next to someone again, the soft rasp of his breathing next to me and the way the covers feel warmer.

August 2nd

I don’t sleep alone after that.

September 15th

“Louis we’re not buying poptarts.” Zayn is trailing me through the cereal aisle with the trolly. “Louis no. Louis no poptarts. No.”

I lock eyes with him, dropping the strawberry frosted ones into the cart. “I can’t hear you. What’d you say Zayn? No swap hearts? You’re talking nonsense again, I think you need to get yourself examined.”

Zayn makes a sound thats halfway between annoyance and anger. “No pop tarts, Louis. We have seven boxes at home.” He puts his head down on the handle of the trolly. “Seven!”

“We’re going to have 8 in about an hour.” I tell him, poking him in the side.

He grimaces, frowning and pulling the trolly away from me. “How dare you do this. How dare you.”

“How dare you stand between me and poptarts.” I reply, partially because I need all of the poptart flavors on hand at all times and partially because Zayn is fun to rile up. “When you try and buy the new Thor movie I’m going to stand in the aisle and start going Zaaaynn but you already haaave eight movies why do you need anotherrrr?”

Zayn pushes the cart past me and towards the check out. “That’s not even a valid comparison. No.”

“You adore me.” I tell him as he puts our groceries on the conveyor belt. “You absolutely adore me. I light up your life.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” He says, making the ugliest face that he can manage. Considering he’s Zayn and his face is probably sculpted by the Gods themselves, it’s truly not that hideous.

“Zayn.” I say, staring at the groceries we’re purchasing. “Are you buying four different bags of candy?” I look closer. “Five bags of candy?”

His eyes widen, and he shakes his head while trying to fight a smile. He does pretty badly. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

“No I would not!” I tell him, the cashier shooting us slightly anxious looks as he bags the milk duds.

“What if we have guests. We could put out little candy bowls. It would be adorable.” He says, and there’s laughter in his eyes and I want to be serious but it’s just so hard.

“Zayn when do we have guests?” I ask him, leaning out over the cart to amplify how hard I’m squinting suspiciously at him.

“Liam and Dani and Niall and Katherine came over last week. They’d appreciate candy bowls.” He says primly, sliding his credit card through the machine before I can protest.

“Candy bowls you’re going to devour before we can invite anyone over.” I grumble, because Zayn is a chocolate fiend and I’m a chocolate fiend and it’s like he’s deliberately trying to sabotage my attempts at eating healthy.

“Not true.” He replies, as we pick up our bags and head out into the fall air. It’s finally getting cold again, the days getting shorter as we walk through the cooling twilight back towards our flat. I’ve got Zayn’s letter jacket on over one of my tee shirts and the breeze still creeps up under the too-long cuffs, sending a chill down my spine.

“Can’t believe summer’s over.” I tell him, swinging my bags around as I spin in a lazy circle on the sidewalk. “I can wear sweaters again.”

“We get to have a heating bill instead of a cooling bill. It’s a wonderful life.” He says, rolling his eyes. I know he’s just being difficult for the sake of it because he lives for Halloween and his stupid little jackets and the way the leaves change color.

“But we’ll get apple cider!” I tell him, because Niall’s girlfriend Katherine has been promising me spiced apple deliciousness since July. “And we can carve dumb things into pumpkins and hand out candy on halloween and wear sweaters, don’t tell me you aren’t excited as fuck.”

He shrugs, a smile playing on his lips. “I’m a little excited.”

“We have to marathon scary movies.” I tell him, hitting myself in the leg with one of the bags when I swing it a little too enthusiastically.

“I’ll get nightmares.” He deadpans, reaching in to steal one of my bags from me, looping it over his arms. “I’ll need to cuddle you so I don’t get scared.”

“I’ll protect you from the monsters, Zaynie Bear.”

“You’re practically my knight in shining armor.” He replies, starting up the stairs to our apartment.

I laugh as he fumbles with the keys, trying to take them from his grasp and laugh harder when he hisses and drops his groceries so he can hold them high above his head.

“How dare you!” I say, jumping up to try and take them back, trying to look as scandalized as I can. “This is the final straw, Malik. Using your height to your advantage like a little cheater because you can’t get the door open.”

He shakes his head, giggling as he waves them high above his head, batting me away with his other hand. “Be quiet you little menace.”

“I won’t!” I tell him, jumping up so far I almost reach them. “You can’t make me, you can’t make me, you can’t make me!”

He laughs, reaching for me like he’s trying to slow my shaking, his hand landing on my shoulder and pulling me into him. There’s a second where we’re caught in momentum, a second where I can see what we’re falling towards and I can’t stop it, not sure if I want to. And then his lips meet mine and it’s warm and strange but good somehow. I’ve missed holding someone close and Zayn has his hands on my shoulders and I have mine on his waist and it’s all okay.

His lips are soft against mine and I watch as his eyelids fall shut like he wants to sink into this, and I wonder briefly if maybe this should feel as right as it does. I think maybe I shouldn’t think so much.

“Is this alright?” He asks me when we pull apart, his breath warm on my lips. I want to kiss him again, I want to kiss his neck and his jaw and I want to have this, because I learned a long time ago it’s impossible to help what you feel.

Falling in love with Zayn, because that’s what this is I suppose, wasn’t a whirlwind romance and it felt less like fate and more like clutching at each other in the dark until we could find the light again. I think maybe if Harry and I were fated in the stars then Zayn and I belong here on Earth where love is imperfect and we’re all just trying to find someone to get by with.

“It’s very alright.” I tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips and trying to convey all that I mean by it. Harry broke me and shattered me into a million tiny fragments and Zayn was the one who brought me all the missing pieces.

We don’t go inside for a long while.

September 17th

We’re sitting at the breakfast table like we always do, with empty plates neither of us have bothered to clear away just yet. I’m bundled up in a sweater and my pants, sleepily sipping at the last dregs of my second cup of tea. My body feels sore and warm and it’s a bit lovely really, being able to sit in our apartment and know everything in front of us is ours.

“Do you think he would have minded?” Zayn asks, buttering another piece of toast even though he claimed he was full ten minutes ago. “Us? Like, being us?”

I shrug, because I don’t know anymore. I still feel the loss of Harry in the back of my throat when I think too hard but I’ve started to forget things about him, how he felt about board games, his favorite movie to watch as a kid. It’s like he’s falling through the mesh, the smallest things falling into some kind of unbeing.

“I think he’d want us to be happy.” I tell him, because that’s the easiest answer and I want to believe it. I know Harry was selfish sometimes, that he was selfless with his love and greedy with mine but I want to believe that he wouldn’t want me to stay broken.

Zayn seems to study the grain of the table for a very long time, running his fingers across the pattern. “Before he died, you know, when you guys were just getting serious, he told me to take care of you. After he was gone.”

“Oh.” I tell him, because I can’t think to form a better answer.

“Love you.” He says quietly, reaching out for my hand. It means thankyou, it means I’m sorry and I’m trying my best.

I put mine over his, our fingers tangling on the wood. “Love you too.” It means thankyou and I know and it’s more than enough.

It also means I love you.

May 17th

On the first anniversary of Harry’s death I drive out to his grave in his big white sweater, the sleeves hanging down over my hands. It’s chill for May, the sun barely breaking through the clouds like it just doesn’t have the energy today. I feel sick like I haven’t in months, and I know it’s the sadness and not the cancer.

I trudge out through the springtime mud and lay my blanket down in front of his gravestone, Olly’s drawings long since dissolved from the sun and rain. I have a small bouquet of flowers for him, a bunch of daisies with delicate white petals and bendy stems.

“Miss you.” I tell him as I sit down, even though he isn’t here. I’ve stopped believing that he’s with me, because hoping in some intangible presence of him isn’t worth it anymore. “I brought you flowers.”

There’s no reply, and I wasn’t expecting one really, just me and the chirping birds. I sit down carefully, opening up my box of things that remind me of him. Inside are the few pictures I have of us, shiny and new like they were taken yesterday. I pull out first his letter and then mine, each word hitting me like a punch when I see them. They’re all such intangible things, the only concrete reminders of the way it felt to love him just scraps of paper and a too big sweater. It’s enough for today.

I pull The Fault In Our Stars out of the very bottom of the box, the one with ‘Property of Louis and Harry’ written on the cover in blue highlighter and crack it open to the first page, my handwriting staring back at me. I clear my throat and begin to read, the words falling awkwardly off my tongue at first like I don’t quite remember how to speak them.

The wind blows in the trees and I don’t cry over lost boys and sad books and places I could have ended up if the world had spun a little differently on its axis.

June 3rd

Danielle looks like a dream as she walks down the aisle, her hair done up high and her train falling gracefully behind her. Zayn is next to me as we stand up by Liam, a grin stretching across his face because at this point they’re as much his friends as mine. I can spot Katherine and Niall in the first row, hands clasped tight and smiles on their faces as Dani and Liam read their vows.

This whole thing feels like starting over, everything about this a continuation of something special and the beginning of something even more beautiful. Zayn catches my eye and I realize I’ve been starting, caught in his angles and his eyes and the way he goes kinder when he looks at me.

“I always cry at weddings.” He whispers, and I can see the way his eyes are tearing up even as he looks at me with the biggest smile on his face.

I’m about to tell him that I don’t when I register the tears on my face, because my heart feels so full its about to burst. “Me too.” I reply, wiping my face with a laugh that’s really more of a giggle.

Zayn leans down, kissing the happy tears off my face. I lean up, kissing his away too.

“Love you.” I murmur, squeezing his hand in mine, watching the way Liam and Danielle watch each other like they have fireworks in their eyes.

“Love you back.” He says, squeezing my hand as everything unfolds before us just like it should.

I think about how incredibly lucky I am to have ended up here with all these people I love, how lucky I am to be able to stand and breathe when a year ago it felt almost impossible. I think about how lucky I am to have found so much even through everything I’ve lost, how in the end the loss didn’t matter as much as the things I found in it. I think about the miracle of feeling and how being alive is the best thing to ever happen to me.

I still don’t know if you get to choose who you fall in love with, if you get to choose who takes a little piece of your heart with them when they leave. If someone had asked me, I don’t think I’d have chosen Zayn, and I don’t know if he’d have chosen me. But standing here, looking through the crystal clear lens of hindsight, I like my choices.

I look up just in time to see Danielle say

“I do.”