Disclaimer: Belongs to JK Rowling.
The Games We Play
It's been a week since you walked out, telling me you weren't coming back this time. I've lost count of how many times you've told me that. You always come back, and it's all rosy for a little while. It never lasts.
We forget why you left, or maybe we don't. Maybe we are just so used to the routine, that we continue the game. We fight. Words are said that we mean but at the same time don't. You throw something at me, and tell me to go to hell. I say I'm already there. You burst into tears, screaming that you hated me and before I know it you are gone. More than likely to the Weasel or to his sister. But you always come back, why aren't you back yet? You aren't playing by the rules. We fight, you run away for a little while, and then you come back.
Most of the time I think we fight for the hell of it, after the war was over and school was done with. There was no spark to our lives, most people would be thankful for the peace, but not us. We needed something to ignite our passions, and fighting was our outlet. I'd push, you'd push, and we'd push each other till we're all but screaming at each other. Over the most inane things, it was always something incredibly stupid, pathetic really. I didn't hang my towel up, or the table was covered in your work.
I'm sure our friends look at us, and wonder why we are still together. And some days I wonder myself. We fight virtually constantly, always in that mode. We have either just had a fight, are in the middle of one, or are just about to have a new one. It's the same damn thing all the time. I'm so sick of this confusion and the fact that it is never simple.
I love you, but I don't. I can't stand you. Every little thing you do drives me crazy. But they are the same little nuances that make you, you. And I wouldn't change them for all the galleons in the world.
There are times when I hate you. I want you out of my life. I'm ready to be the one to leave, I can't count how many times I've stopped myself in front of the closet ready to pack and be gone. But I don't, why? Because I love you and I wouldn't be myself if you weren't around. But I don't stop you when you leave, I watch you pack your things into that small overnight bag, and I'm happy to watch you walk out the door. I don't miss you when you are gone, and I don't suppose you miss me. Mainly because I know you will be back, and you know it too.
You've never been gone this long though, why haven't you come back yet?