Dear Hazza,
I'm not quite sure why you're so obsessed with writing letters, but here I am. I'm not opposed to it; I just don't know how to write nicely like you.
I had a dream last night, and we were in some mythological universe. From what I can remember (you know my memory is horrendous), you were the god of death (?), and I was an angel. Doesn't that sound accurate because I'm such an angel? (I'm expecting to see a nod because I'm right.) Anyways, in the dream, we wrote letters to each other. Maybe you had the same dream, and that's why you love doing this so much. Let me know; we can psychoanalyze our brains.
On a somewhat similar note, I totally revived one of our plants today. I touched it, and I swear it came alive or something. I didn't even know it was dead, you know. Weren't you the last one with it? Did you kill it, Haz? I knew you couldn't be trusted with it.
Not much else has happened. I'm hoping you remember to pick up the hair dye because who knows when else we're going to get around to that. Impulse dyeing is probably not the smartest thing, but who really cares? That's reminded me that in my dream, you were fascinated with red and purple. I'm genuinely starting to think that we were reborn. We can discuss that when you get home. By the time you're reading this, though, we'll already be together, so just bring it up, I guess.
Hey, don't read this while I'm in the room. Or do. I like watching your face light up. Your eyes go all sparkly, and they reflect really nicely, and your smile is so soft, and you don't even realize until I sit beside you and poke one of your dimples. (Remind me to drown you with compliments. I need to do it more.) I'd be the softer god of death. (Because I'd drown you with love, get it?)
Anyways, this letter is a bit of a mess, isn't it? I'll go and revive some more plants or something. I hope you tripped over the conveniently placed boot in front of the door.
I love you, Harry. More than anything.
-Louis Tomlinson, your angel