in a hundred words.

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. 

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.