Disclaimer: Blah.. blah.. blah-blahblah. Happy?
Author's Notes: Took me a couple of tries, but I finally got it just right— fluffy romance with a sprinkling of angst… a very light sprinkling. But still there! Now I know Tonks may seem a bit out of character here, but being women here, we all know our thoughts are deeper than our words. Who actually talks how they think?
The ending doesn't flow as smoothly as I'd like it to, but that's nothing I can't come back and edit later! Hope you enjoy!
Aliss
The Right Guy.
I've ruined it.
At one time, I really thought I had a fighting chance, but I suppose… we weren't meant for each other after all. Maybe everything I hoped for was just a bubble of false anticipation, an optimism of something that I knew deep inside of me that I couldn't have.
I always thought I would fall for the right guy. But maybe this right guy isn't the right guy for me. Maybe there's some other woman out there that he's the right guy for. Maybe my right guy is out there too. Maybe he's looking for me and waiting for me. Maybe he knows I'm the one for him.
But maybe not.
Maybe this right guy is my right guy, and maybe I'm the woman he's looking for. Maybe he's just looking for me and waiting for me in the wrong place or at the wrong time. Maybe he can't see what's right in front of him.
I hope so. 'Cos I'd have no other right guy. He's the right guy for me. I just know it.
Every time I think about him, see him, breathe him, I know he has to be the One. There is no other. I feel something right there, in between the lungs, behind the ribs, that makes me swell up, like someone's blowing up a balloon inside me. I can feel it there every time he enters the room, like the pain you get in your chest when you gasp too quickly; like I have broken glass in my lungs whenever he's near me.
It's a bittersweet conception when you finally understand you love someone — someone who doesn't love you back. You realize you hold the greatest emotion of all inside of you, brimming with joy and life, only to be stifled by one heart-shattering comprehension — unreturned affection. No matter how great your emotions, the recipient cannot reciprocate your feelings.
It's a bloody shame, too.
I finally found the one guy I truly liked, and he passes me by like minced poultry pie. You smile when the plate passes your way, but shake your head and decline politely when it passes in front of you. Who ever actually wants their chicken puréed? No, you let the plate pass you by, and by the time it reaches the end of the table, Grandma's the only one who's taken any. But at least I have the comfort of knowing someone wants me, even if it is just my Gran.
There have been many times when I've considered telling him. But there's always that nagging voice in the back of my mind, reminding me I'm just setting myself up for a train wreck of heartbreak.
He's in his prime, what would he want from an inexperienced, immature girl like you? He's so smart and charming, why would he ever consider a fiery imp like yourself?
And yet I dream of the day I see his ecstatic reaction, when he'll scoop me into his arms and twirl me around, his chocolate eyes twinkling, before he sets me on my own untrustworthy feet and pushes his lips against mine.
Oh what a day that'll be.
I always imagine he'll taste like melted chocolate and roasted nuts (preferably almonds), and that his kiss would linger like a fresh cup of peach tea, sweet and fruity and exotic, never lacking and always enticing.
But sweetest of all would be the words flowing from his mouth, melting me like chocolate and almonds and tea never could— I love you, Dora.
He's taken quite a fancy to that nickname, even if I'm not quite as fond. While everything that rolls off his tongue seems bright and exotic, it makes my name seem even more immature and childish than it already is, like the nickname one would have for your friend's five-year-old youngster.
But perhaps that's the light he sees me in. Perhaps I'm just Andromeda's little daughter, fresh from school and apathetic to the world, young and naïve, not quite as innocent as first taken, though innocent nonetheless.
Maybe I am. Maybe I do seem listless to the world, unconcerned and bored with what they have to offer when I can set a proposal all my own. Maybe I am young and maybe I am naïve, but maybe my youth helps me pick up on things quickly and experience what life has to offer, or what I have to offer life. Maybe I retain the innocence of youth and still manage to engulf maturity full-on.
Would that make a difference?
But maybe he doesn't want someone as bubbly and young at heart as I am. Maybe he wants someone who's laidback and calm, who abides by the rules (though I admit that I'm no angel).
But then, maybe not.
And some times I wonder if he knows how I feel, and I wonder if he knows he's got me tied to a string, willing to jump at his command and do whatever he wants from me. Maybe he does know.
But I know inside of me that he wouldn't be the one to exploit me. He wouldn't be the one to wring me for all I'm worth.
But then, maybe he doesn't know.
He still smiles at me and chats with me and eats dinner with me, still escorts me to Order meetings with a swoosh of his cloak and an impish smile to please.
But then, maybe he does know.
Maybe he's using those mischievous grins and personal conversations and private dinners, those escorts with teasing enthusiasm to tell me something he knows he can't speak out loud—
That he's just as in love with the impishly bright fireball of pink-headedness as she is in love with the mischievously devilish rouge that he knows he can be.
Maybe he knows that he's the right guy for me, who's been looking in all the right places and at all the right times, who's known what's in front of him the entire time. Maybe he knows I'm the one he's been looking for.
Maybe he knows he's my right guy, but is afraid I won't know it. Maybe he knows he's my right guy, and is afraid to admit it.
Maybe he knows he's my right guy, and is just afraid to make the first move.
Time to bite back those childish insecurities, Tonks. Someone's got to make the first move.
FIN.