Whispered
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So she'd been thinking lately. About love. She'd always thought it fake in the sense that it was all chemical reactions and an inherent urge to procreate so as to continue the species; always thought that it would never last — that the more you know someone, the less you can love them, because you see all the ugliness; always thought it painful in that you'd be vulnerable, and likely hurt. Always. And it was, she thought, all of those things.
But she'd been thinking. Actually, feeling. She'd been feeling.
She wanted love. She didn't want the love between family members — yes, it was special; yes, she was grateful; yes, she was lucky she had a loving family; no, she wasn't stupid (Hermione, stupid?) — she wanted the love that only lovers held. She wanted a kiss.
She'd never had a kiss.
She wanted to walk around and hold his (blimey, even her) hand.
She'd never felt the warm hand of a partner clutching hers.
She wanted a hug, and the scent of them in her nostrils, and the feel of their body pressed against her own. She just wanted someone to talk to; someone to protect, and to be protected (please, please that). She wanted someone kind, and loving, and understanding, and patient, and she promised she'd try her best to do the same, to be the love she wanted to love.
She'd scoffed at it — at the whole notion of love — and still did, really, but Merlin, did she want it.
Really, she was just a young woman, wishing for love and thinking she didn't deserve it.
Please.
(too ugly, too scarred, too pessimistic, her mind whispered)
(but oh, her heart whispered please)
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