When he thought of her, it hurt.
There was something within him that ached with the love of her.
It mattered not that that love was unfulfilled: that it was unconsummated. All that mattered was that he felt it. That it overwhelmed him. That physically and emotionally he felt her within him… when she was close… and when she was far.
She never left him.
But she had left him.
And she was far.
He knew not where… he simply knew that he hurt and he ached and that he still loved her.
One day passed and then the next and the inexorable pain was less acute… Less acute by the merest of margins.
Across the grid her desk would always be her desk, no matter who filled it.
In truth, no one filled it.
No one had one jot of her sheer bloody genius. No one sparked with the inspired jolt of revelation that she had…that she had had.
Past tense, Harry.
Past.
And futureless.
How many times had he sat here, the dinosaur that he was: paper exposed, pen in hand. How many times had he attempted to write this letter: in a world of electronics, of bit rates, of data and the magical ether that could transport his words across the globe. How many times with no address, with no inbox, with no source of receipt had he sought to find the words to tell her?
The paper remained pristine, the pen unused. There were no words. And even if there were, she could not read them.
And then, when he had given up the hope, but not the love … there she sat, before him. Her face filled with pain and hurt and betrayal. Her family, that was not his, destroyed before her eyes and the blame for it laid bare at his feet.
When he thought of her, it hurt.
When she looked at him accusingly, it hurt.
And yet he would rather the hurt of those piercing eyes …because they were here, before him. She was here before him and perhaps he may have the chance, just the one chance…. to tell her.