It's been a while since I've had a spare moment to throw something together – big exams and what not. For anyone glaring at the page and muttering about updates to 'To you perceptive reader' ...Mm, yeah... It's gone in totally the wrong direction – don't ask me how, it just has. I have completely lost the plot in every sense, so bare with me on that front.

For now, here we go.

Remus POV, on the beloved Sirius.


I don't close my eyes, or purse my lips – that would make it a chore. I don't even have to think about what I want to say anymore, it slips off the tongue with ease and elegance. It's just one more ritual that gives my day meaning, another dainty little act that brings me that little bit closer to the end of this. Gives me a spark of hope, and a moment's belief in a fair chance. (Naivety isn't just a child's game.)

And it leaves me hollow, and brittle. It's like I've lost the knack for living, forgotten the science behind it and abandoned the art. And, eventually, after four crossed fingers and a trip to the wishing well, it must be admitted; it brings me no closer to the end, no nearer to the solution- absolutely no closer to you. But then, maybe that's the point... maybe, for all the time that I sit here wishing on shooting stars, I don't deserve you. Maybe the answer is staring me in the face ... maybe it's you I should be telling, instead of the stars. Maybe.

But the stars don't run away; they are patient and constant, and, ironically, absolutely nothing like you. I can tell a galaxy that I love you without flinching, but I couldn't tell you. What would you say? ... Nothing, I suppose. A nervous laugh and a hand through your hair, a sarcastic comment and a clap on the back to make me smile (and break me completely).

And what if you didn't run a mile? What if you stayed? ...That would be worse, in the end. Nothing could come of it except mutually assured destruction- that's one of the only things we have in common, an uncanny ability to destroy and hurt the things dearest to us: with your untamed tongue, and your unchecked thoughts, you do far more damage than you think; far more than I could fix. I've seen enough war wounds and battle scars to last a lifetime.

So, for now, I'll settle for watching clocks. Listen to the tick tick counting down the seconds, marking yet another lost opportunity. But as the hands make their familiar journey, tracing circles, I can't help but wonder ...

How many 11:11s have I wasted on you?

A little therapy, I suppose, for a slightly bruised writer, on top of everything else. Chucked together between essay writing, so I don't imagine it makes too much sense.

Reviews are always much appreciated, be they positive or negative.

Cheers.