Lonely. It was an abominable word, barely skimming the surface of what I felt. It had nothing to do with being alone; it had nothing to do with being lonely. But that's the words people would chose to use. In my case, anyway.
'Lost' was another one. I hadn't found my way yet, my purpose. I was wondering aimlessly through life, oblivious to my surroundings. Strange. Loony. People can be so judging.
I was sick of words. I hadn't spoken in months, not since my mum died. No one at school noticed. No one there cared. Who would? It's not as though I had friends.
I stopped writing my father. I sent him pictures instead. Pictures of trees covered in snow, dead and broken. Pictures of birds nests, abandoned for the season. The setting sun, the waning moon, an overcast day. He replied by sending me books of poetry from classic authors. Poems about love, faith, and happiness.
Despite my hatred of words and lack of feeling I pored over these books with passion, highlighting favorite quotes and writing in the margins. Occasionally I would send the books back to him, full of my scribbles and doodles. He would send them back a few weeks later, responses to every last comment I made.
He was all I cared about in the world, until she came into my life. Ginny Weasley. She had vibrant hair the color of the rising sun, her eyes like pools of chocolate, lips soft and full, just waiting to be kissed. And she talked to me. She talked to me as though she cared what I thought, as though my opinion mattered to her. She invited me along with her to meet with people, and occasionally sat with me in class.
I felt butterflies in my stomach whenever I saw her. My hands would become clammy and my mouth dry. I hadn't spoken to her yet. I replied with facial expressions and gifts. I could never tell if she liked what I gave her, usually it was a quote from one of my fathers' poetry books, or a plant from the greenhouses. She always smiled though, when I gave them to her. She always took them.
My first words to her were "I'm sorry," and they had been spoken approximately five seconds after I'd realized what I'd done. I'd kissed her. We'd been studying in the library for exams. There were books spread across the table and she was leaning very close to the table, squinting to take notes off of a page whose footnotes were entirely too small. Her hair was getting in the way so I brushed it back, my fingers grazing her face ever so lightly. She looked up at me and I leaned in.
I didn't run away after, it's not in my nature to run. She stared back at me, in shock. Her hands had flown up to her open mouth, but other then that she hadn't moved. I bit my lip and tried to hold back tears. I didn't know what I would do if she stopped liking me, stopped being my friend.
"You spoke." It was all she had to say as she reached to dry my face with her warm, soft hands. I nodded. I didn't know what else to do. She smiled, her face lighting up like a Christmas tree. She parted her lips, pushing me forward with the hand that had curled around to cradle my head. Our lips grazed against each others. I smiled back, and closed my eyes.
This is what they were talking about; the poets. All those books my father sent me, the verses about love and happiness. This is what they meant, what he wanted me to see. It does exist, it is possible. The sky doesn't always have to be gray.