A stranger greets Louis whenever he looks in a mirror—a stranger with sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones and hollow cheeks, whose strands of mousy hair tangle into intricate knots; curl into something akin to a broken halo.
Every morning he recites, speaks to no one but himself so he could try and remember that, “This is me. This is how I look like.” The simple act is done so often that it has become more like a ritual than a routine; and even then it’s only part of what he must do the second moonlight dies and day breathes again.
(In which Louis suffers from prosopagnosia; he can’t recognize faces, even familiar ones. He can’t remember his own face, let alone Harry’s, but he remembers the way his skin feels under his fingertips, how he trembles under his touch as if Louis is fire, and Harry is nothing but mere paper, disintegrating into ash)