a farewell to who i once was

louis considered himself something of a master when it came to tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. it wasn't that he blatantly lied during his sessions, rather, he liked to see it as simply shifting the attention onto other, less personal things. not even a year ago, he wouldn't have been able to imagine himself opening up to anyone, and the fact that he had to harry was nothing short of a miracle. harry made it so easy to want to lay himself out nakedly, to believe that he would be accepted and loved unconditionally. the same just couldn't be said about tom, someone paid to listen to him, with no real power to change anything.

after that first session, he knew that he should have been feeling relief and trust in the system, but all that he could muster was shame. shame that he would even consider getting help (since he was so unworthy), shame that he even briefly thought of his problems as if they were real. it got harder to show, it seemed. each time he would arrive at the intimidating monster of a building, his legs would feel stiffer than the last. the anxiety robbed him not only of his breath, but of his joints as well. like his body was suddenly unnatural and stationary, not made for life as much as for decoration. and a shitty decoration, he was.

tom had told him in his third or fourth session (he'd stopped counting, as it got too tiring and disheartening, feeling like so much time had passed with little to no improvement), to write something that made him smile on a post-it note every day. the sheer absurdity left him almost keeling over with laughter the first time it was mentioned, until he realized that the man was not joking. it was a stupid idea, he thought, something crafty teenage girls would do in their free time. nothing for him.

but when he came home to harry to laugh about the ludicrousness of tom's suggestions, rather than laughing with him, the boy frowned.

"it's a good idea, no?"

"no. are you crazy, haz? i think this was a joke after all. tom is quite funny if he tries, i guess."

"no," harry said carefully, eyes drawn to the ceiling in thought. "i think it would be quite good for you. to identify how many blessings are granted to us, you know. happiness is possible and everything."

"well, whatever. i just don't think writing down stuff like that would help."

harry said nothing, only shook his head defiantly, as if scheming something.

and he was, after all. louis began finding post-it notes everywhere in just days following that first conversation. in his clothes, on his desk, in his cups, on his pillow, in his books, on his phone, on his windows. some of them would have sweet, lengthy messages that conveyed undying love, and others just single words that he knew louis thought to be beautiful, or book quotes, or small drawings. they were endearing, to say the least, and he found himself keeping them in a box tightly sealed away beneath his bed.

he started doing the same for harry, feeling guilty about not being able to provide the same happiness that his boyfriend did for him. his notes never felt the same, though, despite the fact that harry would keep repeating that they did.

why, darling. i don't live at all when i'm not with you, he wrote once, hidden in a place he knew harry checked very rarely—rather than on his pillow, in his pillowcase. they'd just washed their sheets after a particularly sweaty night for louis, which happened maybe once a month. most of the nightmares were laced with layers of self-hatred and hours spent on cold tile floor, but the sweat-filled nights still made their appearance every once in a while.

who knows what could happen in a month? they could no longer be together, for all louis knew. harry could move on from this precarious game in search of something newer, fresher, less damaged and used.

he found himself missing his sessions more and more frequently. he would drive there on the seemingly always rainy days that he was scheduled (probably having to do with the fact that it was spring and the petals were coming and falling), and simply sit in the parking lot, waiting for the hour to pass. his excuse was the same pretentious bullshit as always, he knew. aristotle and his obsession with the "real good" and "apparent good." therapy, for him, would be "apparent good," he reasoned. not something that would truly bring him anywhere closer to his goal in life, which, in the end, he had no idea of. was life not just a constant, steady descent into entropy?

to punish himself for being so deceptive, toward harry, toward tom, toward himself, he would not allow himself to do anything during these waits in the car. he let his mind wander into the places he would normally keep it from going, to conserve his sanity, if nothing else. but what was sanity worth, in the grand scheme of things?

he decided to organize a beautiful dinner for harry on one of the days the boy had work after classes to make the heaviness just a bit more bearable. he was always the most tense on these evenings, loaded with coursework and unreasonable customers. harry hated working, louis knew, though it wouldn't be for long if his music career continued going as it was. but they had to pay rent, after all. louis had brought up many times, his willingness to work, but it harry always insisted that it was alright, that he was making enough for the both of them. the mere notion of being so dependent on someone else made him feel sick, but what could he do about it? what could he do, when most days he found himself too exhausted to feel like the skin hugging his flesh even belonged to him?

he set up candles—the caramel type harry loved so much, bought fresh flowers, and willed himself to prepare a full-course meal. he realized, then, that he hadn't known much about harry, at all. sure, they shared insight on literature, on life, on music, but food was always a subject that they would both consciously avoid. he knew harry did it for his sake; which he appreciated, as food was never something he saw as pleasant, but it'd irritated him that he hadn't actually known what to prepare for dinner.

so he settled on chicken wrapped with parmaham. cheese had always been something that scared him, unreasonably so, with its stretchiness and milkiness and greasy potential. it was always on pizza, on hamburgers, on everything that his brain would deem as some kind of demonic embrace that lured mankind.

it was all beautiful and poetic until harry had returned home, and he remembered that he, too might actually have to eat all that. a meal that he'd cooked on his own with no regard to calories, fully committed to making it something that harry would enjoy.

"i- i ate a lot while making it," he stuttered when harry asked why there had only been one serving on the table, and curse him, for being such a shitty liar in the most important of times.

the green-eyed boy frowned, but nevertheless accepted the statement with hesitance. "you know, i'm actually releasing my album pretty soon. and i have my first gig coming up. i'm just going to do my single and some covers. you know, at a small local bar. you don't have to come. it probably won't run late. i'll be home before you get to bed, most likely."

he shrunk at those words, because maybe harry hadn't wanted him there after all. though his rational thoughts told him it was just because the younger boy worried about how he would react with the hectic environment, the thought still dug at the back of his mind. "of course i'd like to come. i'll be fine. i want to see your first performance."

"i sing to you all the time, though."

"that's different. when you sing to me, it's to me. and that's special in its own way. i want to hear your worldly debut. i want to see you as the world sees you." it took everything he had to not raise his legs to his chest in shame.

"thank you, love. this means a lot to me. i just didn't want to push you so hard. because…"

"yeah. i know. and i appreciate that. but i��m fine now, i really am."

smiles overtook their faces almost forcefully, and the ended the night in the same way the so often would before, before things got busy and complicated: with a movie. it was saving private ryan that particular night, though neither could really remember much, too distracted by the other to really take everything in. louis only prayed that his stomach would be merciful and not growl loudly enough to be heard over the movie.

and he wasn't able to admit to harry that he hadn't been attending his sessions.

that night had been harder than some others, in the sense that he felt so behind. it wasn't harry's success that bothered him—it was his own inadequacy, he realized. even his novel hadn't been progressing in the way he wanted it to. the characters just wouldn't move, and the more he tried to urge them to move, poking them with sticks and scenarios that he could hardly even come up with, the more obstinate they would become. and the story would fail to progress.

harry was an ever-progressing machine, he realized. everything he set his mind on, he achieved. and here he was, feet planted so deeply into the ground, unmoving, ungrowing. fantasy was closer to reality than his progression was.

the more he skipped the sessions, the more difficult it was to show up the next time. in truth, every week, he drove to the building with the full intent to actually attend, it just never worked out. the space between himself and the immeasurably large building became so great it was insurmountable.

he found that so much time had passed that he'd watched the seasons change. the magnolia trees had gone into full bloom on the second consecutive session he'd skipped, and by the fourth, there were so many petals falling it could have been mistaken by anyone for snow. if he didn't know better, he'd reckon that the world was ending, with the sheer amount of pollen that the sky seemed to birth.

everything had been making its shift from white to green when his phone beckoned him to call harry, to tell him everything that was going on; how he was skipping his appointments with tom, how hellishly uninspired he was, how difficult things were getting, how much he felt like he was falling behind.

harry picked up on the third ring, which startled louis, because he hadn't expected him to pick up at all. he was busy talking to his team, getting everything for the upcoming gig set up, as well as the release of the album. he told himself that calling would do nothing but inconvenience harry, and that there was no point to it. he could handle this on his own, he should just handle this on his own. if he were to just get up off his ass and gather his bearings and go, it would be so much simpler. if he could just get his shit together, he wouldn't be in this shitty parking lot at all.

"hello?" worry seeped through the speaker of louis' phone, which he struggled to hold to his ear. "is everything okay?"

"y-yeah." his voice came out croakier than he would have liked it to be, but he pushed onward. "just wanted to hear your voice."

"aw. well, i'm glad you called. you don't rely on me enough, love. but shouldn't you be with tom right now? or has it not started yet?"

"um. about that. it officially, it officially starts in a couple of minutes here, but, um- don't be mad, but-"

"you haven't been going, have you?"

"n-no. i haven't. i'm sorry, harry. i really am trying. i promise, it's just… getting hard recently. i can't explain it. everything was going so well, it's just-"

"i understand. don't fret over it. it's alright. well, it's not. but it will be. and stop talking like you're bothering me—you're not. i want nothing more than your happiness." the younger boy sighed; not out of annoyance but out of concern. though, louis saw both as equally heavy.

"sorry for calling. just go back to work, haz. i'm being dramatic again. i'll be fine. i can force myself to go."

"how long as it been since you last properly went?"

he counted the weeks he'd spent sitting in his car thinking about meaningless things, like what it meant to live, and hung his head in shame. "five," he whispered quietly, not even knowing if harry had caught what he said.

"right," harry paused. "so, it must be hard to go back in, huh?"

"yeah, he probably thinks I'm the most irresponsible person to live. i never even called in, or anything!"

"it'll be okay, lou. the man works with a bunch of-"

"crazy people?"

"…mentally ill people, anyway. and you're not crazy. don't say that. it'll be okay, love. promise."

"alright," louis resigned, feeling his resolve harden. "i'll do this. i'll speak to tom for the first time in five weeks. and I'll try to be honest, too."

"okay, lou. i love you, okay? never forget that. oh, and before you go," he could hear harry's fond smile through the phone; it made glowing heat replace the anxiety that had been growing so unwaveringly in his chest, "i was cleaning things up this morning, and i found your note in my pillowcase. not sure how long it's been there, but you really are such a nerd. hemingway? really?"

"hey," he chuckled, "i love hemingway. he's probably my all time favorite, at this point, other than shakespeare. better than your edgy dostoevsky.

"hey, i never said he was my favorite! i just said he was interesting," harry pouted. "you know how much i like my salinger. catcher in the rye is great and all, but there's so much more to him, you know?"

"right, right. i better get going, then. i'm already ten minutes late. i can listen to you nerd on about salinger later. bananafish, was it? i quite liked that one. and tell me how work goes, too. we can be all snobby and talk about literature and classical music over red wine while listening to jazz with roses in the candlelight when i get home."

"oh, shut up. we are not like that. you're just an absolute tool, tomlinson."

the usage of the word tool and of his last name made him tense in his seat only slightly, but he somehow managed to calm himself down—something that could have never happened just months ago, he realized. "i'll talk to you later, hazza. thanks for being with me all this time."

"always."

despite the comforting words, the walk into the building had not been any easier. he hadn't known why the place he found also doubled as an inpatient center for those who needed extra care, but it did, making security so much tighter and the process so much longer. he never actually had to step foot in the highly controlled area of the psych ward, but he could still sense the scrutinizing glares that'd treated him like he was something less than human, like he could jump out at any time and slit an unsuspecting bystander's throat.

shortly after he checked in with the receptionist, he was met with those same unyielding gray eyes again.

"nice to see you again, louis. how are you?"

"i'm sorry i haven't been coming. things… things have been- well, not hard, but-"

"it's alright. we get that a lot with some of our outpatients. we just try to give them some time if we don't think they're in imminent danger."

"still. i should have at least called or something. i'm an adult. should've acted like it."

"don't beat yourself up about it. at least not in the waiting room."

tom's office, again, calmed him. the lightbox sign, instead of saying comfort is a slow death like before, read simply forgive yourself. how was he to forgive himself in these circumstances? when he was falling so behind?

"so, what made you feel like today was the day to come back?"

"i called harry, i guess. felt guilty. he kind of… helped me gather the courage, i guess. it gets harder to come back the longer i skip."

"i understand that. if it helps at all, we don't judge here."

"i appreciate it."

"harry is a good support system for you, i assume?" tom added.

"yeah. he is."

"would you rather talk about some things with him here? i'm not a relationship counselor, but i think if his presence makes things easier to let out, at least for a couple sessions, he could come?"

louis pursed his lips. "i mean, he does know… most things. more than what i'm comfortable saying here, anyway. no offense."

"none taken. but, what do you think?"

"i'll- i'll ask. he's a busy person, so i don't… i don't know."

the session went on with louis' feet rooted into the carpeted floor, eyes flicking everywhere, and the sound of pen scraping against paper. less nauseating than before, but the world still spun ever-so-quickly beneath him. the sound of the air conditioning was loud against the silence that separated himself and the tom.

it's not that he felt that tom was going to attack him at any point, or that tom even seemed like that type of person, but being in such a confined area with the heavy door shut behind them, somehow unsettled him. he didn't want to imagine a sweaty body atop his, warm breath assailing the tips of his ears, strings of saliva dredged on his chest and in his mouth. he didn't want to imagine himself saying the wrong things and feeling his face in the ground as a result.

but nothing of the sort happened, not even when he couldn't find the words to describe how he was feeling, or when he nearly snapped at tom, who continued writing calmly, showing no sign of discomfort at all. of course not, he thought. this was his job. so what was he expecting?

he didn't want to bring up tom's suggestion to harry. he knew that the boy would cancel anything and everything for him, no matter how important it was. not to mention, he wasn't one to hand his soul to a stranger, in the first place. but he had, nonetheless, in midnight mutterings while his face was pressed deep in harry's chest.

"tom wants you to come to next session. just so i can… get comfortable, you know." his voice was so soft, he wondered if harry heard him at all. a part of him hoped that the boy didn't.

"of course, love. i'll go. the only day i can't is the day of my gig. but that's a friday night, and your appointments are usually on wednesday afternoons, anyway, no?"

"yeah."

"okay. then let's plan on it. i'm proud of you."

"thanks, harry. i appreciate that. i'm so-"

"shush. apologize one more time, and i might just kiss you."

"that makes apologizing even more tempting," he smiled brazenly.

"my breath smells. are you sure you want that?" harry nuzzled closer to him, and he swore that he could fathom constellations from the flecks of gold in his green eyes.

"your breath always smells. i'm used to it."

"oh, shut up. you love me."

louis felt himself look down, fearing that if he allowed himself to marinate in the boy's eyes for any longer, there would be no chance of return. "i do."