I.

I love you. You snort. They say it is difficult to say those three words. Liars. Idiots. You know better. You said them- countless times. You had success- always. They were returned- mostly. You meant them- sometimes. Seldom. Maybe never. You didn't tell him, though he so longs to hear them. You know that he needs to hear them, but you never say them. Not to him. Why, you don't know. Has it ever bothered you before to lie? No. Why with him? Why can't you give him what he so desires? That's the question, now, isn't it? Why didn't you love him, not why you didn't say so. That is clear. He would see right through your lie. He's beautiful, he's intelligent, he's more than you probably deserve.

He's at home now. Waiting for you, preparing your dinner or cleaning the house. You always tell him to let the house-elves do that. He says that he likes to do it for you. For you, do you hear? He would do anything for you and he doesn't expect you to say those three words. Maybe he hopes for it, you don't know. What do you know about him? About that angel that graced you with his presence? Enough? You know better than to think that you understand him. He's a miracle and where he is miracles are said to happen. You will never truly understand him. Never.

Do you know enough to make such a decision? To hurt him? No, you don't want to hurt him. He is your angel, too. But would you do anything for him? No. You wouldn't lie. You somehow doubt that is as positive as you would like it to be. You have lied so often, to him, too, and now you can't anymore. Why? Or why can't you just continue like this? Not lying, but not telling the truth, either? He never complains, he is happy.

Is he? You see him in the mornings and then when you come back from work. He's always smiling at you, asking about your day, massaging the tenseness away. Do you ever ask him what his day was like? Do you know what he does apart from cleaning and cooking? Yes, you do. You know that he draws pictures for children's books. It's his job after all. You know that he loves it. There is so much life in those pictures, so much magic. Besides, it allows him to hide away from the public eye. You know how much he hates to be pushed into the limelight. Of course, you do. How could you possibly not? It's the only thing you really fight about. Well, not fight. He never fights, he pleads with you and you force him to go. For your sake. You tell yourself that you always make up for it by visiting his friends with him and of course... Yes, he likes those rewards as well, though if you were honest you would admit that you like them just as much, maybe more. Would you be able to withhold? No, probably not. You know he could. Feelings are so much more important to him than sex. So much more important than to you.

Then why can't you lie? Why can't you pretend? You are a master of pretending, you pride yourself on it.

And yet you are willing to hurt him. You plan to hurt him. Today. You have been planning for a while, haven't you? First it was his birthday. You are not that cruel. Then he went to that ministry function with you. You are not ungrateful, either. Halloween. You won't make him lose another person on that particular day. His friends' marriage. You owed it to him to accompany him. You were not going to destroy that day for him. Christmas. Of course not. Your own birthday. You know how much of an effort he made and you don't want to deal with his breakdown on your birthday. You know you are stalling it on purpose. You know that you deliberately search for excuses. You know that you only make it worse

That's why you will finally do it today. You will finish work early before you can be overwhelmed by another bout of cowardice and go home, where he will be waiting for you. If you are early enough he won't have started dinner yet, which would make the whole situation less awkward and shorter. You know that it's a futile hope.

You banish the stack of papers still waiting for you. You have to do it now. Your secretary looks surprised as you walk past her with your cloak donned and no files to accompany you, but she's too well experienced to question you and just quietly wishes you a pleasant evening.

You snort inaudibly as you make your way outside and then apparate home. Is it your home? Or his? You insisted on paying for it, but he furnished it, painted the walls, made it homey. You will leave it to him, then at least he won't have to worry about packing and moving. You try to quench the part of your mind that tells you it is a cheap and low way of yours to buy his forgiveness. He will never forgive you. No, if you were in his stead you would never forgive yourself. He is different.

You shouldn't be doing this to him. You know it all too well. He doesn't expect anything from you, he gives you everything. You shouldn't hurt him. He has been hurt too often. You shouldn't add to that. He doesn't deserve it. Just turn back around now, buy some flowers for him, make him happy! Why can't you make him happy, why can't you love him? You don't know, but you are sure that you don't. He's perfect, maybe he is too perfect. But no, it is not his fault. You will not blame this on him. You will not!

You walk slowly and still your steps eat the gravel garden path he arranged. There are flowers on the sides, not many considering the time of the year, but still enough to show how much he takes care of them. He sometimes has smudges on his face and hands when you return home. It's endearing, isn't it? There's even a small pond and you remember him telling you about a few ducks which settled there. Most likely he feeds them, that would be like him. He sometimes sits out here and draws. He says it inspires and soothes him. Today it's too cold and windy and rainy. How fitting, isn't it?

You approach the porch with trepidation in every step. The door isn't locked, it never is. He claims that he doesn't want to lock himself in. This is not a prison, he says, everyone is free to come and go as they please. You usually lock it when you come home, though, you don't fancy the thought of anyone just walking in and surprising you. He always laughs at that, but doesn't complain. Does he ever complain? No, not really, he's satisfied with what you are willing to give him. Maybe he won't see that as a big deal, either.

He must have already known after all or at least suspected it. Maybe you are the only one making a fuss about it. Maybe things will go back to normal, as if you hadn't said anything. Do you need to say it then? If he already knows? Yes, you have to. He deserves to know. You can still hope that you aren't right with how you think he will react.

He greets you, a bit surprised but with his usual breathtaking smile. He asks if something is wrong, directly after apologising that dinner isn't ready, yet. You can see that he is worried. Worried about you. You don't beat around the bush, you did that long enough.

"I have to tell you something," you say and his forehead furrows as he nods and leads you to the living room.

He pats the sofa next to him invitingly, turning to face you. You try to keep as much distance between you as is possible without being blazingly obvious. You know that he notices, but he continues looking at you, waiting for you to find the right words.

Four words. You know you have to say them, but it is so hard. You wish that you could reduce it to three words. How you wish three words would be enough. Then he would smile at you, throw himself into your arms so that you'd lose your balance and you would make love and live happily after. That's exactly what would happen. You consider lying. Not for the first time. Everything would be so easy and perfect. A perfect lie.

He is still looking at you and you can see him kneading his hands. He's distressed. You are making him nervous. You make yourself nervous. You take a deep breath. Now or never? Now.

"I don't love you." You say it clearly, not rushed, not quietly, and his heart shatters.

You can see it just as clearly. His hands still, his head lowers, his eyes close. Sharp shards of his heart tearing him up from the inside, piercing him, torturing him, killing him. He breathes out. You can see him fighting for composure. So unlike him to lock in his feelings. No, that's wrong. He has more masks than you. It's just so long since you have seen him hide behind them. It's a defensive mechanism. You have hurt him.

"Thanks for being honest," he says, his voice is calm, too calm. "I'll pack my things."

He stands up, but you stop him: "You can stay here. I'll go."

"I don't want to stay." He falters a little and abruptly turns his back on you, you know he's crying.

You don't know what else to say and watch him leave the room. He closes the door softly behind him. You can hear him climb the stairs as you sink back onto the sofa. Now that went well. You can't help becoming sarcastic. It's how you deal with feelings. What are you feeling? Besides not love? Pity, perhaps? Do you pity him? Because you broke his heart? No, he is stronger than that. He will survive. He will be better off with someone who loves him. Maybe you are confused because he was so composed? It only shows that you were right. He suspected something. It is surely better like this. Guilt. Yes, you feel guilty, don't you?

You can hear him come back down again only ten minutes later. His steps are soft, almost inaudible and you only hear them because you are used to listening closely for him. Normally he would come to you now, sit down in your lap or snuggle into your side. But today is anything but normal.

The house is soon silent. So dead. You finally stand up and walk up the stairs and into your bedroom. He didn't take much. Only his own clothes, a few things from the bathroom, his drawings and his private belongings. He didn't touch any of the things you bought together. The many books, the few knick-knacks you brought home from your trip to Spain, the television and the extra blanket you gave to him because he always seemed to be cold. Even the easel that was your birthday present for him.

Maybe he will come back later to fetch the rest of his belongings.

Once he has calmed down.