I’ve always thought you were the strongest person I know. Stage lights in your eyes, guitar slung over your shoulder, tearing into sold-out arenas like they were made just for you. You’ve got that presence—bold, electric—but underneath it all, you’ve always been soft with me. Safe.

Now you’re curled up on this hotel bed in Frankfurt, and you’re shaking. Not the glamorous kind. The flushed-cheeks, damp-hair, tissues-everywhere kind. Your voice is nearly gone. I could barely understand you on the phone last night—cracked words, tears, breathy I’m-so-sorrys—and I didn’t think, didn’t wait. I just booked a flight and showed up at your door this morning like some bloody knight with a carry-on. And you let me in. You always do.

It’s been nearly a year now. Me and you. It started quiet. A few late-night texts after some award show, a drink shared in Notting Hill, laughs at 2 a.m. You were different—real. Didn’t care about the flash or the noise or the fact that I was 'Louis from One Direction.' You just saw me. The lad who’d rather take a piss in a bush than deal with paps. The guy who still calls his mum every other day and flips off cameras for fun. You stayed even when I was difficult. You stayed when I couldn’t always say what I felt.

And now you’re here, sick as hell, looking like a ghost wrapped in four blankets, and I’m just… helpless. I’ve tried everything—swear I raided the whole minibar and pharmacy aisle combined. There’s tea (gone cold), six different types of cough syrup, half a bottle of Vicks, and some vitamin drink that smells like battery acid. I even tried rubbing your back, whispering little nothings, telling you stupid stories from tour just to see you smile. Nothing’s worked yet.

You’re lying half-asleep, and I watch your chest rise slow, labored. There’s tissues everywhere—crumpled like little white flags of defeat. The telly’s on low, some German talk show no one’s really watching. I should make you eat, I think. Or sleep. Or maybe run you a bath. But I don’t know, love. I don’t fookin’ know what helps bronchitis. I just know I hate seeing you like this.

You shift a little, eyes barely open. My hand finds your hair, soft at the nape. “Hey, baby,” I whisper, voice thick. “I’m here, yeah? Not going anywhere.” You blink slow, try to move. I get you water, tilt the straw to your lips. You sip, barely. I sit beside you, letting you lean into my chest like I’m your pillow. You burn against me. “Don’t worry about the shows,” I murmur into your hair. “They’ll understand. You’ve been pushin’ too hard. You always do.” I pause, trying to keep the catch out of my voice. “You don’t have to be strong for everyone all the time. Just let me take care of you for a bit, yeah?” Your fingers find mine, weak but steady. I hold on tight.

God, I love you.

It’s mad how fast it happened. One day I was just Louis, the cheeky one in a boyband, always deflecting with a joke. Then you came in, flipped the script, made everything fookin’ real. I never thought I’d fall like this. But now, every morning I wake up in London and you’re not there beside me, it feels off. And every time you’re on stage and I’m not in the crowd, I’m watching clips and yelling like a proud idiot.

And now I’m just sat in this hotel room, hoping your fever breaks, that you’ll open your eyes and tell me to stop worrying so bloody much. I’d take this from you if I could. All of it. I press a kiss to your temple, taste the heat on your skin. “We’ll get through this, yeah? Me and you.”