You didn't know what you and Louis were. All you knew he was a struggling rockstar, who worked at a diner and only called you when he was high.

You go to his tiny studio apartment after his call and he takes a swig of his beer as he sees you, his eyeliner smudged, his hair tousled, his guitar on the floor with his jacket.

"Why'd you only ever call me when you're high?" You ask sharply but he simply smiles.

"There's my girl." He says with a joint between his teeth, smiling.