My Gay Roommate (L.S)

Thirty Two

So I approached Anne-Marie the day after Louis and I confronted each other. We decided to do some studying in her room, pens were scattered all across her bed, music quietly flowing through the room.

I chewed on my pen lid a little, looked up to her. "When did you know?" I asked.

She must've known what I meant, because she laid down her pencil onto her notebook, clasped her hands together and gave me a sincere look. "I might've heard Louis and Zayn talking that night he had the bad dream. Heard him say that you seemingly were struggling with food. I thought he was being a little dramatic, but then when I saw you deliberately skip meals, I knew it was serious. I knew I had to help you, babe."

I frowned, looked at my hands that sat in my lap. "'M sorry," I muttered under my breath.

Marie pulled me into her side, kissed my cheek. "H, there isn't anything for you to be sorry about. You're not in the best of minds right now, and that's okay. We will all be there to help pick you up, chase the shadows, yuh?"

We finished our study session in a comfortable silence after that, and I was grateful for having friends like the ones I have.

It's currently morning. There's a bird outside the bedroom window chirping its cheerful tune, swirls of dust particles dance in front of the window that pools with a redish and golden light from the early sunrise. It's six in the morning, and we have no lectures today, thankfully.

I snuggle further into the pillow, noticing the absence of Louis who was beside me last night—our limbs tangled together, my head on his chest. I sigh, my brain itching for burning off the dinner from last night. Liam had cooked us all a pasta bake, and even though I know the calories were burnt off during my sleep, there's a part of me that wants to make sure it is fully gone from within.

I stand slowly, stretching. I rub the sleep from my eyes, brush back my curls that slightly get caught between my fingers from being knotty after a night's sleep. I haul out some jogger bottoms and a red wool jumper. I tie my hair up into a messy bun, wispy curls falling along my face. I look in the mirror to see purple hues under my eyes, and my stomach looking a little shallow.

Good. It can stay that way.

I creep out the room, going toward the kitchen for a water bottle. I can smell the aromas of cooking as soon as I hit the landing, and I'm pretty certain it's just from last night. The house is practically dead with everyone sleeping.

But when I look up, I see Louis at the stove, which, in itself is dangerous as hell. He's humming to a song coming through his earphones, head bopping as he stirs something in a pot—wearing nothing but a long sleeved pyjama top, me wearing nothing but the matching pyjama bottoms. I lean against the island, watching him pick up a pot of salt. He goes to sprinkle it into whatever is in his saucepan, but nothing comes out.

He sighs heavily, and pats his hand forcefully against the base, only for the lid to give way and about a tablespoon of salt splashes into the pan, before he quickly catches the rest in the pot, leaning it upright.

"Shit," he curses, using a metal spoon to scoop most of the salt out of his pan, and back into the salt shaker.

He shrugs a shoulder, the toaster pops and he grabs the slices of slightly overdone toast (no idea why he doesn't turn the dial down so the toast won't burn each time). The smell of burnt bread wafts into the air. He tosses the toast onto two plates, slides it behind him onto the island before me, not realising I've been standing here for a good five minutes, just observing.

He brings the saucepan off the heat, turns, and physically startles when he finally sees me. He rips his earphones out his ears.

"You seriously need a bell, Curly, Jesus fucking Christ, nearly shat meself." He pours what I assume is scrambled eggs onto each plate.