Valerie

Browning leaves crunched under the weight of Doncaster boy, Louis Tomlinson as he walked closer to the horizon, his eyes never leaving the sunrise. He had absolutely no clue what city he was in, yet he found it remarkable. Fall in general fascinated him; the leaves falling (is that why they call it Fall?), the browning of the leaves, the crisp air.

As the sun rose, Louis took a seat on the edge of the sidewalk and took his phone out of his pocket, checking for any text messages he might've missed taking in the beauty of this morning. There were the few messages from those who blew him off all the way through school, but decided to become best friends with him when his career took off. Arseholes.

But, there was one that stuck out to him. From Marco, their representative at Modest Management. He read the text quickly, barely soaking in any words, but he didn't have to. It was plain and easy to understand what Marco was so urgent about. Louis Tomlinson signed a fans marriage licence. He was married.

He was married to a girl who'd breezed by him at a CD signing.