𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ☾ 𝐥. 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

4 | Heaven is You

Violet
—

10:30 A.M. — 8 hours until landing.

IT IS COLD, MY HEAD HURTS, AND I AM TIRED. Though, this is somehow not the worst situation I have ever been in— New York, 2018, let's not talk about it.

I am currently sitting on an eleven hour flight to London, England with Louis Partridge to my right, and a hormone-filled preteen to my left.

This hormone-filled preteen has apparently watched a show called "Medici" and supposedly Louis had a huge role in it. They have been talking for three straight hours—including squeals (not only from the girl, but also Louis), weird fist bumps (mind you, I am sitting in the middle of them), and asking to touch his hair. I would laugh about their stupid banter and the heart eyes that this twelve year old is throwing at him, but my head is literally pounding.

I tried to sleep off the pain, but with the turbulence and the "squealing Louis" sitting beside me, my luck has faltered. Gladly, a flight attendant came around bearing refreshments and snacks that eased off their talking and put the girl to sleep.

So now, I am resting my head on the headrest, trying my best not to look out at Louis' window, where we are flying high above the freaking clouds— how is that physically possible? I placed my hand over my forehead and shut my eyes, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it would stop a fraction of the pain— spoiler alert: it did not.

        Tap, tap, tap — Oh my God.

Tap, tap, tap — I am going to murder him.

Tap, tap, tap — I opened my eyes, furrowing my eyebrows as I turned my head towards Louis. He quickly pulled back his hand from where he was tapping— the top of my right thigh.

"What do you want?" I quickly asked, my head pounding from my raised voice.

"I was um, I was just wondering if you were okay? You don't... seem well." he said, his voice slightly above a whisper.

"Well, it's cold, my head hurts, and I'm tired. So no, Louis, I'm not okay."

"Oh, wait. Your head hurts? I brought Advil. It's just in my backpack." he said, reaching below his seat to fish for his backpack.

How does this boy keep having everything I need? From chargers, to transportation, to medicine.

British boys just do it better, I guess.

Every single boy at my high school is either the type of boy to laugh at a gross sex joke or is too scared to even talk— never in between.

Louis' backpack now sat on top of his lap, opening zipper after zipper for the Advil. After scouring through his whole entire backpack, he finally found the Advil, placing it on top of my open tray table that held my cup of water.

"Thanks." I awkwardly smiled at him as I opened the child lock and plopped it into my mouth, following a sip of water and an easy gulp of both contents. I downed the rest of my water as I placed the cup in a random bag and closed my tray table.