in a hundred words.

Your smile is the only thing I can really comprehend as you ask me to dance. Your hand is at the small of my back as you lead me to the dance floor, where the lighting is dim and everything twinkles like a dream. 

And then you draw me close; my arms go around your neck and your hands are at my waist and I can just smell the scent of your aftershave that’s distinctly you. 

“Your hands are cold,” you whisper to me, amused.

I laugh softly, nervously. “But don’t you know? They always do that when you’re around.” 

How do you know when to stop?

How do you know if what you’re doing is still what you love, or is on the way to what you want to be doing for the rest of your life?

How do you know if your dreams are right? How do you know if following your dreams is the right thing to do?

How do you know you won’t turn out to be a failure? How do you know if this is right for you?

How do you know when it’s time to give in, to give up, to let go?

How?

I’m writing this because it’s so damn hard to keep away from you. I’ve tried, believe me, I have. You’ve got me under your spell and there’s nothing I can do about it and I don’t want to ruin what we already have but I’ve realized that someday I’m going to have to let you—let this—go. So I’m leaving you this note, and I’ll be waiting for you at our old spot by the lake tomorrow afternoon just before sunset. If you don’t come, I understand. But if by some chance you do, my heart is completely yours. 

I’ve never really noticed how the rain falls. I’d always thought it fell straight down, much like when you let go of a water balloon from a window.

It’s late at night and quiet and all I hear are raindrops. The car is moving and I see the rain reflected off the headlights and it’s falling diagonally. The wind pushes on the rain. It still falls, but not the way we think it does.

And then I realize that the rain is falling, the car is moving, but I am not. I’m still here.

And finally, finally I understand why. 

So here I am, listening to yet another Taylor Swift song and trying hard not to think of you when she describes boys with raven hair and brown eyes that capture your heart completely.

I’m obviously failing.

By some weird coincidence, you tap me on the shoulder just as I am in the middle in a rather impressive rendition of Teardrops on my Guitar. I snap my mouth shut and my eyes widen in mortification as you stare at me amusedly.  

“I never did understand why she didn’t just tell Drew,” you say, tweaking my nose affectionately.

No, you wouldn’t.

I wrote about you again tonight. I wrote about you because the moon was full and it reminded me of the nights we’d go looking for wishes in silent streets. I wrote about you because the shirt you left in my room still smells like you, and if I close my eyes and breathe deeply, it almost feels like you’re here. I wrote about you because we had pancakes for dinner, and I know it’s your favourite. Mostly, I wrote about you because I can’t believe that you’re really gone, and I’d rather write than cry knowing you’d never come back.

“I’ll never forgive you for leaving me,” you say, looking at your shoes. “I’ll never forgive you for taking off without a text, a message, not even an explanation.” You look at me, and I finally see the unshed tears in your eyes. “I needed a friend, I needed you, and you weren’t there. We’ve been best friends for twelve years, and you leaving like that was a slap to my face.”

It was true. I took you for granted. And I’m sorry, more than you could ever know.

“I like your shoes,” I say softly, because this is how we are.

(It doesn’t take a lot to rekindle a sputtering friendship; all you have to do is be honest, the way you were, and try.)

You know what I think?

I think maybe people are just too scared to be themselves sometimes because they think that who they really are is completely boring or too unusual for other people to take.

I think maybe if we stopped pretending for a while, we’d find who our true friends are, by just being true to ourselves.

I think this is easier said than done, and I know I’ll go back to wearing a mask tomorrow. I wish I didn’t.

Tonight, I will let myself think the way I want to, and hope you’ll accept me this way. 

Today, he walked in to the library in time to see her sigh, push her book away and rest her head on the table. She sighed again as Draco’s eyes widened. He never thought he’d see the day Granger willingly pushed a book away.

He stayed rooted on the spot when an unfamiliar feeling crept up on him. Was it compassion? He shook his head.

Making a decision, he strode over to her table and put down his bookbag on the opposite end with a soft thump.

 “Granger,” Draco said, nodding. There was no malice in his voice, no taunts, no sign of an impending insult. 

“You sure about this?” you ask me. We are sitting on the grass, so close that I’m aware of your thigh mere inches away from mine and the smell of your musky cologne. I’m sure that if I turn to look at you, I’d be able to count every freckle on your face.

“Yep,” I reply, my voice firm but inside I am quavering. No, I want to say. I’m not, but it’s for the best.

You are quiet for a moment, then finally sigh. “I’ll still wait for you, you know.”

Maybe then we’ll be right for each other.