Even Angels Die (One Direction)

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Katy’s POV

“Come on in, it’s open!” I called out as the doorbell rang. The only person, other than Elly, who knew the combination to unlock the lift to allow them to get to my apartment, would be Louis. My heart fluttered for a second as I realised I still had the pile of letters in front of me. I knew I’d have to explain what I was doing, and I didn’t mind too much, but I didn’t want him to think I was completely crazy.

“Hello!” Louis replied cheerfully, and I could tell at once that the performance had been a success. Of course, a room full of obsessed teenage girls are always pleased whenever they finish performing, but the boys have always been critical of themselves. If one of them sung a wrong note or accidently messed up the words – they would be annoyed.

“Good show?” I questioned, raising my hand to summon him over to me. He moved over and clumsy pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and I couldn’t help but grin. It was clear he’d had enough alcohol to affect his judgement skills – but not quite enough for him to be completely drunk.

“Yeah, yeah! It was great. You should come see us again soooooooon.” He told me, leaning against the back of my chair, and I giggled at the way he accentuated the ‘o’s. He hadn’t been in the club for that long, but he’d clearly had enough to drink already.

“I will! When is your next performance in London?” I asked, pausing in the sorting of the letters to turn in my chair and face him.

“Can’t remember.”  He admitted, reaching over to pull out the chair next to me and collapse on it. He smiled at me, before turning his attention to the papers covering the table. “What are these?” he asked, picking up one of the envelopes.

“Letters.” I mumbled, watching as he examined the outside. I was grateful that he didn’t reach in and pull out the piece of paper inside – for however much I felt as though I was slowly recovering from the heartbreak, I’m not sure I could have coped with anyone else reading the highly personal emotions I poured out to Jack’s memory.

“They’re not addressed to anyone.” He commented, placing that envelope down and picked up another. He was right of course, the envelopes were blank. On the first couple, I’d written ‘Jack’ on the front – but that had made me feel even worse as I realised that he would never actually be able to read them himself. In the end, I’d decided to leave them blank with only the ‘Dear Jack’ written on the letter itself.

“No.” I agreed, glancing across at the three piles which were now neatly organised. One was far larger than the rest, with another with twenty or so letters, and a final one with just three.  The largest pile, which must have had over a hundred letters there, were all to be thrown away. I didn’t need the comfort they had brought me at the time I wrote them any longer. Those letters were countless and almost meaningless due to the fact there were so many, with such similar content. The smaller pile in the middle held letters which were more important to me – ones where I told Jack about specific events in my life.

Finally, the last three were ones which I was planning on taking to Jack’s grave. They were the beginning, the middle, and the end – so to speak. I’d found the very first letter I’d written to him since his death, which was perhaps the most difficult for me to reread. The shock, grief and guilt I had felt at the beginning had been almost too strong for me to cope with and the words I had written reflected that. Parts of it didn’t even make sense, almost as though I had been writing the words down as they came into my head.

The ink was splattered by teardrops, too.

“Who are they to?” He questioned, looked at me with intrigue clear on his face. I mean I knew I owed him an explanation of some sort. It’s not every day that you walk in on your girlfriend sorting out hundreds of letters to her dead ex-boyfriend.