I threw this party for you.

Not because I wanted to. Not because I give a shit about champagne flutes, industry snakes, or flashbulbs that burn into your skin like scars. I threw it because they told me I needed to look happy. Because they said we couldn’t be seen leaving together again. Because someone somewhere caught your hand brushing against mine at that radio event in Paris and suddenly, it was war.

They dragged you into a back office and fed you words like poison, didn’t they?

“Keep your hands to yourself.” “You’re making people uncomfortable.” “Think about the fans.” “Think about your future.”

You haven’t touched me since. Not unless it’s behind a locked door, in shadows, in silence. Like we’re something to be ashamed of.

But I still throw parties for you.

You showed up late tonight. Hoodie on. Hood up. Like you were hiding from the world—and maybe from yourself too. I watched you from across the room, pretending not to. Pretending I didn’t feel my chest split open when our eyes met. Pretending I didn’t notice the way you looked away first.

You used to run to me, Lou. In those early days—back when it was still easy, before the contracts and the rules and the damn fear—you used to pull me into closets between interviews, kiss me breathless, laugh like we were invincible. You used to say I was the best part of all this.

Now, I’m the part that makes you flinch.

I walked through the crowd tonight, smiling so wide my jaw ached. I danced with strangers. Let that girl from the label whisper in my ear like I cared. All for you. All to prove something—though I don’t know what anymore. That I’m still yours? That you still want me? That this means something even if you won’t say it out loud?

I just needed you to look at me like you used to. But when I finally found you again, standing by the drink table, staring blankly at the floor—I saw it.

You looked scared.

Of me. Of us. Of what it all means.

And I fucking hate them for what they did to you.

They took the boy I love and made him ashamed of his own heart. They convinced you that our love was a threat. That it was something to hide, to bury, to deny. They filled your head with their toxic, homophobic rules until you couldn’t even hold my hand without looking over your shoulder.

I’m still outside now. Smoking a cigarette I don’t want. Watching the sky and wondering what it would be like to just leave. No more bodyguards. No more management. No more “no touching.” No more lies. Just you and me in a shitty little flat somewhere with ugly wallpaper and quiet mornings.

I’d take that over all of this glitter and bullshit.

My phone buzzes.

Louis: “Are you okay?”

Two hours into the party, and that’s all I get.

Not “I miss you.” Not “I’m sorry.” Not “I wish I could hold you.”

Just that.

I stare at the message, wondering if you mean it or if you’re just checking I didn’t do anything stupid. Like kiss someone in front of a camera. Like cry in public. Like say your name when I shouldn’t.

I don’t reply.

Instead, I type out something I’ll never send:

I’m not okay, Lou. I’m in love with you and I’m not allowed to say it. I want to scream your name. I want to kiss you in front of the whole damn world. And you keep looking at me like I’m the problem. Like I’m the thing you need to run from. But I’m not. I’m just the boy who never stopped choosing you. Even when it fucking hurts.

I delete it.

And I go back inside. Back into the noise. Back into the fake smiles. Back into the life I never wanted.

But still—I throw this party for you. Because it’s the only way I can show you I still care. Even if you don’t have the strength to show it back.