A/N: I love this quote. And I love second person. And I love to explore passion, because come on; what romantic doesn't?
Hence, this exists.
Read it. Try to like it. Review it when you're done. Come on, guys. I'm still in school. I have things I don't do because I'm writing. Reviews are the only things I get for my trouble. Give me one and make everything instantly worth it?
"You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul."
-- Julie de Lespinasse
You love him.
It's just plain pathetic to keep denying it.
So say it. Right now. You do love him, you miserable coward. You do. You love him.
You always have loved him, even when he used to bug you and make your blood run too hot through your highway of veins and arteries. You loved him when he pulled your hair and asked you out and made remarks about a body you were never comfortable with. You loved him when you swore at him and screamed bloody murder if he tried to touch you.
You loved him when he was being an idiot boy with an inflated head, even when you didn't know what you were doing or what you were feeling.
In your own ways, you did love him through the bumpy journey of early adolescence. You loved him so passionately, but you never really knew it.
How could you? You were young. You were stupid. You lusted after superficial men that were good at entrancing starry-eyed teenagers with red hair. You didn't understand what was happening to you.
So you thought you hated him, because it was an easy assumption to make, when you're so young and so stupid. Your peers thought it was fun to watch you fight. People laughed at the horrible things you said about him, and you liked that. You liked blossoming under their attention. You liked thinking that you were the one girl in the year that could take that sod James Potter down, and bring his head back to earth.
You failed to realize what he was, or more importantly, what he could be when given a chance. You failed to realize that your head was as spacey as his. You failed so miserably at all the things that mattered while you excelled at the things that didn't, and you were an idiot.
But now you're older. So is he. And you know what was going on when you were kids making and breaking your future lives. You know, with great bitterness, that he wasn't the prat you thought he was.
He was only a boy, a boy who was trying to love a girl, when that girl was trying to love everyone else. And you, being wild-hearted and fiery and earnest and black-and-white with the things you thought, broke his heart without knowing or meaning it.
It was never anything major that you did. Maybe that's why you never noticed it happening. Or maybe, it was because you didn't want to know.
After all, when you gave him those middle fingers all those years and he took it cheerfully because he shone under your attention, how could you care when a few months later, a glimmer of hurt began cutting into that cheeriness? How would you guess that the Jelly-Legs Curse you put on him in the beginning of sixth year was one curse too many, once the habit is ingrained in your day?
And, how could you ever guess that under those layers of swagger, humor, and buoyancy, that there was tenderness, and an earnestness you have too, that could potentially be scratched by your viciously searching hands?
When he stopped talking to you, after another flaming row that warded people off miles away from you in the common room, it was supposed to be a blessing. He did it quietly, backing out slowly like people do when they're coming out of an addiction or a long-withstanding habit. You barely noticed. You were so busy with your own damn life, why would you?
You moved on after that, without him. You honed and broke hearts that weren't his. You loved and you lost. You made and let friends go. You worked hard and you grew up, leaving your messy, emotional past behind to embrace the bright future you've always wanted.
You know yourself well. You're fully aware that you move too fast, want too much, love too hard, fall too soon. All you want is to keep running and keep going, because letting up will hurt more than pushing yourself further. You've got so much in you, a chest overflowing with pure zeal and fervor, an ability to care so profoundly, and you're so rash that you don't realize what you've done or can do until you do it.
That's what's happening to you now, isn't it? You know, with a deliberate fuzz in the deepest portions of your bones, that you've gone about him completely the wrong way.
He's not a horrible prat. He kind of was before, but he isn't anymore. He's your Head Boy, and although he's a joker and a ladies man and a man as fervent and zealous as you, he's changed.
His previously untethered eyes of olive-tinted hazel aren't as clear as they used to be. They're harder, darker, more serious – they're no longer the eyes of a child, but the eyes of someone who has seen too much.
He doesn't look at you with sincere ardor anymore. Even though you're misguided and melodramatic and turbulent as hell, he is willing to forget if you are. And you do want to forget. That is the only thing you want from him, to forget, because seeing a living reminder with battle-scars from the beast you used to be is too much for you to handle.
But you know you can't distance yourself from him. You thought you could be his friend all this time, being a Head and adjusting to him from a distance, pretending you never knew him and never loved/hated/abhorred/wanted-to-kill-him, and for a long time, you did well. He did too; until you did the one thing you couldn't do, the one thing you swore you'd never do, the one thing that was off-limits as other barriers you thought were unbreakable wore down:
You fell in love with him.
And here you are, stuck in a mess of allegiances that scrambles like eggs in a blender. You love him with a fire that licks every part of you irresistibly, seductively, but you love his simple, cautious, casually intimate relationship with you too; you used to hate him, and you don't talk about that anymore, so you don't know if he's forgiven you for the child you were; you don't know the effect of your actions and he doesn't know the effect of his.
You have a lot to work through together, and everything you need remains unspoken between you two, a taboo topic you are both too shy to broach.
He used to love you, and now he talks to you with rapture about his girlfriend, who is milder and sweeter than you are. You now love him and you can't love anyone else. You love him to the point where it hurts, hurts like you did when you hated him, and it feels like déjà vu, only in a way it doesn't.
Nothing makes sense in the world. How can you possibly love him, with what has gone on between you both? How can you dare think anything positive about him after what you've said to him before? How much do you want to hurt him, leading him on after the tumultuous history you've share with him?
You're hurting. You're worried. You spend enough time with him for him to notice, but you know you can't say anything.
You love him, but he doesn't owe you anything. You love him, but you're the one that owes him, and you don't deserve him. You never really have. You know that now, but what can you do? You've made mistakes and screwed things up, but it's never been like this.
You feel with all you have, live with every fiber in your plentiful spirit, but you make many mistakes along the way, and now you realize that the biggest one you've made is the one that matters most.
You love him.
There you go. The truth, plain and simple, unattached from the fine, densely knotted strands of life that have interwoven to become your relationship with him.
You love him. It's plain pathetic to keep denying it, because it's the truest thing you've ever come to terms with.
You love him so passionately, you miserable coward, and now that you know it and are ready to accept it on one strange level or another, your fairytale ending has passed away, your big chance to do something right for once gone with it, and you're done.
You're left here, desperate and overflowing and speculating, pondering the question you swore you would never make yourself ask, back when you were a raw, reckless little girl who never wanted to wonder:
If you had found the courage to realize, and chase after him when he was still here, waiting for you as patiently as he could despite the storms you threw at him, what would have happened?
Would he have loved you, as he always said he would? Would you have loved him and ate your words like ice cream because it was worth having him here?
Or would you have failed him, as you already have, but with the knowledge of knowing you tried rather than the knowledge of knowing you couldn't?
A/N: This should be a two-shot. I can feel it. But do you want it to be?