I hate Weddings. For most people, when they hear the word 'Wedding' it brings joy and love. For me, it only brings bad memories of when I used to enjoy life. Weddings make me think of him.
I really should be happy on this day. It wasn't Ron and Hermione's fault that he's still gone. And yet, I can't help but think that if he was here today, it would be I walking down the isle with a single red rose. I that would have the diamond ring on my slender finger. However, under the circumstances, that's never going to happen. You see, he's gone. And according to Mum, he won't be back for a long time.
So I roamed the world, searching for the meaning to live. I saw many different places, ate many new and exciting foods. Greece, France, Spain, Portugal, and The United States all passed my way. I was looking for someone, anyone that may also have startling green eyes and messy black hair. I failed astoundingly. Sure, there were a few men that came close, but there was always something wrong.
This guy was selfish, that one too cheery, this man too moody. Every time I dumped one of the men, another piece of my heart broke off. I'm surprised its still beating after all this time. Sometimes I sit alone in dark corners, hand pressed against my chest to feel the steady thump-thump. Of coarse, then it reminds me of the nights we got close. Where I rested my head on his chest and listened to his heart beat. Then I withdraw my hand, crying silently.
At first, after he left, I sobbed against my Dad's shoulder. A year of practice makes all the difference. I now cry with no sound. Occasionally I'll find myself seeking the comfort of my family's arms again. I know I worry them all terribly, but I'm not the same anymore. I may never be. It's like something he once told me whilst stroking my head. "Family lasts a lifetime. True love never dies."
A person would live with their family until death did them part. The family lasted a lifetime. That same person would fall in love with a special guy. Once they died, other people would carry one with the same love they shared. True love never dies.
I used to think about what he said. If true love never died, why had it left between us? Had it not been true love? Or maybe he had thrown a bucket of water on our fire. Even today I wish I knew.
What Ron and Hermione share is true love. They stand at this moment, getting married. I can see it in their eyes as the look at each other. Even the way Ron talks to or holds Hermione is filled with love. I envy them with all the strength my body can muster.
It could be I standing at that isle saying, "I do." I could be the one dressed in a gorgeous gown with my hair carefully filled with flowers and pearls. More importantly, it could be he gazing at me with love in his eyes. But for all we know, he's getting married to a different girl, in a different country, with different friends. Noble yes, but loyal? Not so much anymore.
One would assume that he would at least show up for his best friend's wedding day, but apparently not. Besides, it's not like he came to my eighteenth birthday party either. I spent it alone, in my flat, no matter how much my family begged me to come to the Burrow. The only company I let sit beside me was an old sweater. His sweater.
It's on nights where the clouds coat the skies in a thick blanket when I miss him the most. They remind me of the last time I saw him, two long years ago. The night he swore to come back in one piece. The night he betrayed us all.
He had gone off to fight Voldemort. I remember being completely terrified that I was going to lose him, standing on the outskirts of the fight, watching as he battled Tom. If only I had known he was going to run off afterwards. I would have gathered him in my arms and never let go, just to hear him say, 'I love you' one last time.
The Aurors searched for about a year before giving up. Bill, Charlie, and the twins were part of the search party. I got a letter from each of them every week. It gave me hope when they found a clue and sorrow when it turned into a fake.
I don't have the letters anymore. The last one that came sent me into an outrage. It was Bill who wrote it, and I couldn't even read it because my tears smudged the words. That night I had gotten the box under my bed and strewn outside into the woods, lighting a fire.
Somehow, seeing the letters burn up into dust calmed my nerves. I also threw in pictures. Handfuls of pictures with him and I went sailing into the curling flames. In my fury, I looked down at the last picture, clenched in my fist.
It was probably the most recent picture taken before he disappeared. We were hugging tightly, his forehead leaning on mine. I burst into tears, cradling the picture against my face. And so began my sleepless nights of staring at the now framed picture. It haunted me when I was awake, and in the precious moments that I was asleep.
After a month or so the picture got tossed onto the top shelf of my closet. Gone when I wanted it to be, and yet there when I needed it. If I were to go look at it today, would see a child looking up at myself. I feel older every day, as does his sweater.
The same sweater that I had hugged on my eighteenth birthday only one week ago is losing its magic. I had found it under my bed while cleaning my flat one day. It still smelt like him, a spicy male scent that I hadn't smelt for a long time. After constant nights of being coddled and held, the sweater is now an ordinary sweater.
Today, after the wedding, I plan to fold it carefully in a box. Beside it, I will place the last remaining picture that I have of him. Then, I will bury in the nearest cemetery. He is Gone to me; I want to hate him, want to forget him. And yet, I still love him. Who knows, maybe one day he will return. One day, he will come back to claim me, like he promised long ago.