Twenty One Letters To Niall

Eleven Letters To Niall

i'm such an awful person + i'm so sorry for not updating, honest. I know how much some fanfics can mean to people - i feel u bro -  and dfgbrthety65j  I'm so bad. i've just had a lot going on and idk i couldn't think of anything.  i've also started to hate writing in past tense lately and that's what this story is in, but oh weeeelll ED SHEERAN AT THE SIDE AGAIN BECAUSE YES

again, i didn't read through this (i really need an editor or something bc i'm so lazy) so i apologize for it's shittynesss but anyway, hopefully the next update will be quicker and also like waht u guys 300 + votes on the last  chapter like i cant even

much love xox

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Niall was convinced that he had some sort of disorder that made him unable to interact with other people. Either that, or he was destined to become a hermit and live alone in a shack made of mud and straw until he was found one day, with his guitar still in his hand and surrounded by takeaway menus. Honestly.

Somewhere along the M6, the tour bus had started making funny noises and their driver and the rest of their entourage had pulled over at a service station, where they were then promptly told that they would be there for a couple of hours while someone sorted the bus out (something to do with a valve or whatever, Niall hadn't really been paying attention when Liam explained). The rest of the boys had of course taken advantage of the sunny weather and the break from the road, while Niall, quite frankly, would've rather stayed inside and read another one of Charlie's letters, maybe. 

So that had led him to sitting on his bunk and rifling through his bag looking for the small parcel of letters, wondering what had caused him to be so unsociable with his best mates while he eavesdropped on Harry and Liam's conversation floating through the open window.

"Why don't you play football with us?"

"I'm tired of playing football."

"Go play darts with Niall, then."

"Niall cheats."

Liam snorted. "He wins every time, you mean."

"Fucking Irish." Harry muttered under his breath.

Niall comtemplated making a comment, but instead smiled to himself, running a thumb underneath the fold of the envelope. It crackled softly. With a contended feeling in his chest, he pulled it out and began to read, the sun shining bright through the window, warm on his skin.

Dear Niall,

I thought that since I told you a little about Eliza in the last letter, maybe I could tell you some more.

We adopted her when I was five, a nine month old girl with corn coloured hair and a bright, toothy smile. She made such a difference to our lives. I'd always wanted a sister, but I couldn't have one. My parents couldn't have children. My mother had been told that she never would, the chances were impossible. It was kind of a miracle that I was born.