"He's here. He's in our house, in the kitchen, talking with Ron. Every time
he comes I think the same thing, that there is no way he's in the same
house as I am. I supposed it's because he's always so close, physically,
but so far away, mentally. At school, we work in almost two completely
different circles, no matter how much I wish that weren't true. It's not
fair, this horrible distance. Nothing's fair.
It's not fair that I love him. It's not fair that not a day goes by that I don't love him more. It's not fair that he's so important to me- he's the most important person to me. It's not fair that he has no idea, or if he does, he doesn't care. The fact that I care so much for him, and he doesn't notice is humiliating, embarrassing, infuriating, maddening, terrifying.
It's not fair that sometimes I'm glad he doesn't see me, because I think that he might not like what he sees. I know that I'll never be beautiful; the best I can hope for is cute. But somewhere along the line, it became a relief that he'll never be attracted to me because of my looks, in case he's repulsed by my personality. If he was, I couldn't say "Oh, he just doesn't know me, he's only looking for someone pretty enough," because he would hate me for me. Does that make any sense? I suppose I've made a comfortable spot for myself. I can bask in my love for him, without having to worry about what he thinks of me, simply because he doesn't think of me.
I like to imagine that if he would open up to me, I could help him. I dream that he'd be searching for comfort and I could give it to him and know what he's thinking and feeling. But I know, really, that I could never give him what he deserves. It's useless, all those images I play in my mind before I go to sleep at night. It's like a Muggle movie, or something, only we're the actors and I'm writing it in my head. Each night I change the scene, or the dialogue, or the setting. My favorite, actually, is the one where I come down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, ready to make a some hot coco, when I find the light already on and, low and behold, there's Harry, looking quite upset, waiting for someone to listen to all his problems and give him the comfort and peace that only I can. If that wasn't so sad, I'd laugh. I usually do laugh at things like this, but it's just so depressing, I can't manage even a smile.
I always wonder what the right thing to say is... How does one go about telling the boy of their dreams that he is just that, that boy of their dreams? But he's so much more than that... He's someone I want to love, and help, and care for, forever. I want to be his someone, I want him to know. But-"
Harry frowned at the notebook he was reading as the words ended. It looked as though there should be more, but he felt that what was written was more than enough. He didn't know whether she did it consciously or not, but Ginny had left her- well, it certainly seemed like a dairy, even though it was in a school-like notebook- on the porch where she had spent the afternoon, away from the rest. He hadn't meant to pry, or read it at all, for that matter, but he wanted to know just what kept the girl so interested that she seemed to have missed his arrival. Apparently, that was not the case, however.
Something had to be done about this, Harry was sure. But just what had to be done, he hadn't the faintest idea.
Tell me what you think please. I'm just getting a feel for writing, playing around, finding my pace and everything. I love constrictive criticism; I handle it very well. You see something wrong, stupid, idiotic? Tell me. Don't like it? Tell me, and tell me why.
It's not fair that I love him. It's not fair that not a day goes by that I don't love him more. It's not fair that he's so important to me- he's the most important person to me. It's not fair that he has no idea, or if he does, he doesn't care. The fact that I care so much for him, and he doesn't notice is humiliating, embarrassing, infuriating, maddening, terrifying.
It's not fair that sometimes I'm glad he doesn't see me, because I think that he might not like what he sees. I know that I'll never be beautiful; the best I can hope for is cute. But somewhere along the line, it became a relief that he'll never be attracted to me because of my looks, in case he's repulsed by my personality. If he was, I couldn't say "Oh, he just doesn't know me, he's only looking for someone pretty enough," because he would hate me for me. Does that make any sense? I suppose I've made a comfortable spot for myself. I can bask in my love for him, without having to worry about what he thinks of me, simply because he doesn't think of me.
I like to imagine that if he would open up to me, I could help him. I dream that he'd be searching for comfort and I could give it to him and know what he's thinking and feeling. But I know, really, that I could never give him what he deserves. It's useless, all those images I play in my mind before I go to sleep at night. It's like a Muggle movie, or something, only we're the actors and I'm writing it in my head. Each night I change the scene, or the dialogue, or the setting. My favorite, actually, is the one where I come down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, ready to make a some hot coco, when I find the light already on and, low and behold, there's Harry, looking quite upset, waiting for someone to listen to all his problems and give him the comfort and peace that only I can. If that wasn't so sad, I'd laugh. I usually do laugh at things like this, but it's just so depressing, I can't manage even a smile.
I always wonder what the right thing to say is... How does one go about telling the boy of their dreams that he is just that, that boy of their dreams? But he's so much more than that... He's someone I want to love, and help, and care for, forever. I want to be his someone, I want him to know. But-"
Harry frowned at the notebook he was reading as the words ended. It looked as though there should be more, but he felt that what was written was more than enough. He didn't know whether she did it consciously or not, but Ginny had left her- well, it certainly seemed like a dairy, even though it was in a school-like notebook- on the porch where she had spent the afternoon, away from the rest. He hadn't meant to pry, or read it at all, for that matter, but he wanted to know just what kept the girl so interested that she seemed to have missed his arrival. Apparently, that was not the case, however.
Something had to be done about this, Harry was sure. But just what had to be done, he hadn't the faintest idea.
Tell me what you think please. I'm just getting a feel for writing, playing around, finding my pace and everything. I love constrictive criticism; I handle it very well. You see something wrong, stupid, idiotic? Tell me. Don't like it? Tell me, and tell me why.