A/N: It's random, I know, but any girl who's had a crush is going to know exactly what I'm talking about.
I'd done it all.
I'd agonized with the girls I trust the most in this world.
I'd endured some extremely painful introspection.
I'd taken every pathetic romance-compatibility quiz I could get my hands on from Petunia's secret stash of teen magazines.
I'd played the stupid loves-me-loves-me-not daisy game, much to the amusement of my friends.
I'd even had a gypsy tell my fortune/predict my future at a fair I went to over the summer once.
I'd done literally everything, trying to prove to myself wrong, but every single test I took only brought me closer to the conclusion I didn't feel ready to face:
That I should give up.
Give up trying to deny this need I have for him.
Give up denying that I care about him.
Give up distancing myself from him when all I wanted was to come closer.
Give up telling myself that this feeling was going to go away, in time, and free me from its effect.
I'd literally done everything. It was finally time to accept the truth.
I was in love with James Bloody Potter, the last person on earth I thought I'd ever fall in love with, and I could no longer do anything about it – because I no longer had a choice.
Damn.