“Can’t you tell he’d rather be snogging Snape’s left bum cheek than talking to me??” I moaned, dropping my books on my bed and standing with my hands on my hips.

“Katie, darling, quit being so tragic,” Angelina urged, spreading her own workload out on her bed.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “My life is tragic. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

“You could try doing your homework,” suggested Alicia. “It might help you take your mind off some things.”

“But I can’t even do that anymore,” I argued and began to pace the floor. “You don’t understand. I tried studying how to transfigure a ‘otter’ into ‘wood’ and all of a sudden I was thinking of him again! It’s just not fair that I spend every waking moment analyzing him in microscopic detail and he gets to be the one with other things on his mind!!”

“Like Elizabeth Dowry?” asked Angelina.

“Yes, like Elizabeth fetching Dowry,” I said, wringing my hands. “What is so enthralling about her anyway, hey?”

Alicia shrugged. “Well, she’s a stick with perfect hair for starters.”

“For starters?” said Angelina. “That’s all that needs to be said.”

I groaned again and hit the bed with a thunk. My head hit my books.

“Oh fetch,” I moaned, rubbing the area of impact.

“Hey, here’s an idea,” Angelina put out, beginning to flip through her various notebooks and texts. “Why don’t you start dating other people? If not to take your mind off of it, it might make him jealous.”

“Ange, boys don’t think that way,” I sighed. “Especially him. He doesn’t care who I date anymore. He cared when we were dating but not before that, and especially not now.”

“Um…at least he never broke up with you?” Alicia said tentatively.

“Um, they were never dating in the first place,” Angelina said. “Katie likes to say they were either because it makes her feel better.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m working on Muggle Studies, give it a rest.”

They exchanged looks and turned their attention back toward their books. I fiddled with my quill a while, attempted to read, but as soon as I attempted to take notes I found myself drawing curly cues and then lyrics to a song. You see, I can’t help it.

I have found almost everything ever written, said, sung, screamed, or whispered underneath the protection of a pillow about love to be as real as the person who wrote, said, sung, screamed, or whispered it. There are the classics, of course: “What is it that express to me in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the words I have read in my life.” That was written by Walt Whitman; eloquent, to the point, and virtually timeless. Then there are the ones that remind you of a teenage girl’s diary: “If I had a star for every time I fell in love with you all over again, I would hold the universe in my hands.” In fact, that actually did come from a teenage girl’s diary; a young lady by the name of Alicia Spinnet who just happens to be my roommate and best friend. (I’m not sure she knows that I know this.) And, continuing on, there are the somewhat more offbeat reflections on love: “But Fernando! You’ve been dead for fifteen years!” And the reply, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” I borrowed that one from a particular muggle movie which I love. However, when you really come down to it, the only thoughts that I can sympathize with sound something more along the lines of: “I want you to want me”, “I play the same song over and over again because it reminds me of you”, and “Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.” Those came from, respectively, Cheap Trick, an anonymous chain letter, and Charlie Brown—the original emo kid.

I suppose I think about being in love more than any normal eighteen year old witch should, especially one that has so much on her plate already. But it really can’t be helped; I am constantly amazed and enthralled at love’s ability to completely alter and redefine our lives, priorities, and even personalities, for the better. That secret feeling of security and new happiness that can make this dreary world a tolerable—and even enjoyable—place never ceases to capture my attention and leave me powerless to think on anything else. Which is, I suppose, why I have become obsessed with love; tracking down quotes and writing them down in a notebook, recording and rerecording instances of particular poignancy found in movies, and collecting various love songs put on a compilation mix tape which I listen to repeatedly when feeling particularly low about my own dealings with love. A little creepy? Yes, I admit that it is. But for those of us unloved ones, those of us who suffer the hidden wound of unrequited love, we have to find our own ways to cope. And it becomes particularly tricky if you, like me, refrain from masturbation.

Yes, I have fallen in love alone. It’s really quite a pity. It becomes even more pitiable if I bothered to mention the minor detail that the object of my wasted love is Oliver Wood. That man—that indescribably charming man—has caused me to waste the better part of four months of life! I realize that this seems a trifling amount in comparison to some stories of true love where the obsession can go on for years, but to an eighteen year old still in school, four months might as well be an eternity. Especially when you stop to consider which four months Oliver Wood has dominated; he has successively ruined Halloween, crushed Christmas, pulverized New Year’s Eve, and if this pitiable state continues into the next couple of weeks (which I have no doubt it shall), he’ll utterly destroy Valentine’s Day. Ahem—not that I particularly cared about that holiday in the first place.

Maybe Ange and Al are right—we didn’t necessarily date. Officially anyway. Oh, but we were so close. If only things could have gone right. If only things ever went right. The reason it’s so hard for me to forget him is because he’s gotten right down to my core.

You see, the major offenses I have to incite against Oliver Wood all seem to contribute to the overarching theme that he has destroyed my life. How, you ask? Easy. I was, before I was utterly consumed by Oliver Wood, a happy and carefree teenage witch. Nothing really bothered me except when Snape’s next essay was due or the impending match against Slytherin. Then Oliver came into my life. Well, I suppose he was there before. He’s been my captain for my entire quidditch career. But when I say Oliver came into my life, I mean Oliver came into my life. (The added emphasis denotes romantic attachment). I’m not quite sure how it started. Innocently enough, I suppose. I noticed a few days in a row that after quidditch practice, Oliver had an interesting habit of staring at me. After this discovery, subsequent revelations were made: Oliver smiled in a particular way at me in the hallways of Hogwarts or across the room during dinner. Oliver dished my plate up for me at breakfast. Oliver took extra care of me on group outings. What was a girl supposed to do in a situation like that? What she’s most likely to do of course: encourage it.

And I did. Oliver and I started talking; about more than just quidditch, I mean. We were up until the wee hours of the morning on the couch of the common room just talking. That’s what made it so great, we just talked. It was so good to finally connect with someone who seemed to be so much like myself. Maybe it was part of the love goggles I was wearing, but I felt like we connected on just about every level. In his company, I was able to articulate some of my deepest, darkest fears and insecurities; stuff that I’d never told Ange & Al. And in return, Oliver admitted to me some of his own insecurities and hesitations. I know that sounds bizarre; who would have dreamed an enormously sexy quidditch captain could have insecurities? But he does. And so do I.

So now, when I pass him in the halls, I feel like I know him to an extent that maybe not even he does, and I know that he knows me that well too. When you know those kind of particulars about someone, it’s hard when you don’t talk. I know I’m not making sense here. You’re probably wondering why Oliver and I don’t speak. And honestly, I am as well. The only thing I can pin it down to is that during the time we were getting close, we went on a group outing to Hogsmeade and I went as his date, but neither of us really talked to the other. I was heartbroken and, according to Fred and George, he was just as frustrated as I was, the prick. What it comes down to is that we’re both shy. Eff.. We were trying to patch things up after that but one day we just stopped talking all together. And halting conversations are all we’ve had since.

My name is Katie Bell and I am a basket case.