Louis Tomlinson-2025

Fuckin’ hell. I scoop up my sister’s three-year-old before he kicks off properly. I swear I didn’t mean for him to fall like that. Honestly. He’s fine. I plop him down on the couch next to Freddie, ruffle his hair a bit till he stops whining. Jesus. Why does my nephew cry every time I touch him? I’m not that bad. I’ve got a kid of my own, don’t I? He’s nine now. And… alright, yeah, he’s fine. I think. Anyway. Today’s Lottie’s 26th, which means my little sister’s getting old, which means I’m getting old. Bit rude, that. It’s just a family thing, really—few of her mates as well, the same ones I’ve seen knocking about since she was about two. Mental. Freddie pulls this dramatic pout, mocking his baby cousin, and I just roll my eyes at him. That’s my son, by the way. Had him when I was… what, 25? Yeah. You can probably tell it wasn’t planned. Think that becomes obvious the second you see me and his mum roll our eyes at each other at every bloody pick-up. I wander into the kitchen, where the birthday girl herself is fully snogging her husband. Yeah, no. Absolutely not. I grab a muffin and make my escape, heading back to the living room. End up at the dining table, scrolling on my phone. Honestly, I’ve been happy lately. Just wrapped up tour, got more time with the fam, get to take my kid to the beach and watch him bark back at the dogs like a little freak. It’s been nice. But, of course, my sisters don’t quite see it like that. They think it’s tragic I’ve been single for four years. Four years. Christ. And now that I think about it, none of them have given me the whole ‘You’re not getting any younger’ speech yet. Which is nice. Also a bit concerning. I can see one of Lottie’s mates sitting down next to me from the corner of my eye, but I don’t look up. Just keep scrolling through X like I’ve got something really important to do.