I want to hate you.
You break my heart with every single word, with every motion, even with every fucking expression. I can’t stand it. I look at you and I feel myself breaking down; so agonizingly slow that it feels as if you were peeling off one layer of my stubbornness after another. My soul feels so raw and vulnerable that I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore.
Those times, when I used to be strong and independent, and people would admire me not pity me, they are long gone. I couldn’t stand pity back then. Now, I pray that you will pity me and show me mercy. Why don’t you? Why are you so cruel? Can’t you see that I’m just a pile of useless bones, stripped from dignity, beneath your feet?
You like to say that wisdom is a gift but I would trade it for youth.
No, my love. I would trade it for you.
For one more day with you. One of those we used to have. Filled with teasing and hidden smiles, way innocent and dangerous than any kiss could have ever been.
I really want to hate you.
For everything you’ve done to me. For every man you’ve kissed when you weren’t supposed to. For every time you’ve lied to me that you didn’t.
For every unanswered letter. Even for the answered ones, with tiring excuses. They weren’t worth my time, but I still clung to them like a scared child clings to its mother, afraid that if he lets go, she will be gone forever.
For getting engaged. About a month after we've had sex for the first time.
I’ve never told you, but this one really hurt.
I’ve only blamed myself.
It’s stupid isn’t it? I couldn’t help myself. At the end, I was the stubborn one. You were ready to let me go, but I wasn’t. I will never be ready to let you go, not completely.
So I blamed my youth, my inexperience; my naivety. Even my fame. Or maybe this one in particular. I knew it was a burden for you. Only later I’ve realized that it was me, bones and flesh, that was a real burden.
I could never understand why did you start all of this if you didn’t want me, in the end? Why did you play with me like that? As if I were nothing, but a puppet to toy with and leave behind the second you got bored. Did you? Got bored, I mean?
Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe there are still parts of me that can be hurt.
Or maybe not.
I wish that I could tell you something cruel. I wish that I could tell you that my love wasn’t real. That you’ve never had the power to hurt me because I’ve never cared. That I’ve wiped my floor with you, with our memories. That they mean nothing. That I don’t have troubles sleeping, recalling them one by one. That my jacket doesn’t smell like you anymore.
I really want to hate you, Severus.
But you will never know.
And I will never tell.
It’s so much easier to live inside the illusion, to pretend, than to let the words fall. As long as I don’t pour live into them, they don’t exist.
They can’t hurt me.
I can create my own version of events. I can bend the universe and fool myself that it never happened.
Maybe it won’t save me.
But it will save us.