I have a confession to make. I am a hypocrite. I sit amongst my friends and poke fun at anti-vaxxers, or question the sanity of flat-earthers. Yet, from a young age, I was part of a conspiracy theory myself, and I am still actively recovering. It’s bigger than the government. Bigger than alien invasions or mysterious deaths. Dear reader, I am clearly referring to the world-wide phenomenon best known as “Larry Stylinson”.
For those who have preserved their brain cells, Larry Stylinson was the (officially unfounded, yet passionately defended) belief that Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson of One Direction were secretly and desperately in love. According to their fanbase, they were held hostage by their management and forced into cruel ‘PR’ relationships for the sake of their careers.
Look.
I know.
In my defence, I was a closeted 10 year old with far too much free time. What was I supposed to do? Unless you understand the primal thrill of getting home from school, logging onto your secret Twitter account on the family computer, triple checking you’re on incognito mode, and desperately searching for a new minor interaction between the band members, you simply cannot judge me.
It was a beautiful way of living. I felt like a double agent.
Externally, I seemed like a well adjusted 10 year old, who only cared about netball, school, and the new Brandy Melville shop that opened at the mall. But behind an anonymous profile, I was an avid “Larry’s Cutest Moments!” video viewer who spent hours unpacking interviews on group chats with strangers I’d never met. We would analyse eye contact, screenshotting moments that we called ‘proof’ — because friends just didn’t look at each other that way. Among all the One Direction related talk, we got to know each other. I didn’t know what they looked like, but the group chat always had advice whenever I asked.
In hindsight, I might have needed a significant lesson in cybersafety. Or therapy.
Maybe even an exorcism.
Of course, being a “Larry” wasn’t just a hobby. It was a lifestyle. The fandom spoke in code. We made endless ‘proof masterposts’ on Tumblr with suspiciously scientific titles like “Analyzing Body Language: 67 Reasons Why Larry Is Real”. We genuinely thought we were the last line of defense against the evil forces of Modest Management, an entity we believed was dedicated solely to preventing two British boys from holding hands in public. After all, One Direction wasn’t just a band, they were a brand. They were advertised to teenage girls, dangled over their heads like they were available to them. Two members being queer and completely off the market just didn’t work.
It wasn’t all bad though. Among shitposting and fans hacking airport security cameras, I found a sense of belonging. Beginning to question one’s sexuality at such a young age is terrifying, but finding a community where queerness was not only accepted, but celebrated and desired, was so important. Larry may not have been real, but the struggles the fandom ascribed to them were. A fear of coming out to the public, having to hide your identity, the risk of losing the people you love. Through shipping Larry, young queer fans could not only safely explore these fears, but construct alternate realities in which they didn’t even exist.
Recovery has been slow. Even now, the scars run deep. I still can’t look at a blue and green object next to each other without experiencing flashbacks to grainy concert footage, hyper-edited GIFS, and panicking at 2am because Louis didn’t tag Harry in a photo.
Nowadays, I try to channel my passion into healthier pursuits. You know, like binge-watching Yellowjackets or having my laptop open with an empty Word doc whilst I scroll TikTok. But sometimes, when I see a random paparazzi photo of Harry smiling at the wind, a tiny part of me wonders: was he thinking of Louis?
No. Bad. Go touch grass.
Healing isn’t linear.
But at least it’s not 2015 anymore.
