Feelings, nothing more than feelings,
Trying to forget my feelings of love.
Teardrops rolling down on my face,
Trying to forget my feelings of love.
~Feelings by Morris Albert
It's not like I love him, she decides one late night when he sleeps next to her. We have sex. He kisses me and makes me breakfast. We go our separate ways.
We aren't in love.
It's impossible to think so, though, when her hand is clasped tightly inside of his, the warmth of his body emanating onto her own naked form.
The moonlight spills from his balcony, the door open, late-night breezes wafting through.
She shouldn't be so afraid of commitment, of loving someone.
She shouldn't run and hide and try to make herself unhappy. She isn't a masochist, because when she achieves her roundabout goal, no feeling of relief comes with it.
She wants to be happy, but cannot let herself. She wants this warm feeling, her hand in his.
And yet, she cannot.
She lies sleepless many a night, her eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the ceiling as she contemplates the meaning of love.
His walls are a purple shade, light and beautiful and the color of love. The color of his kisses and their intertwined hands and his rumpled hair and her breakfast in the morning. The color of their love, their oh-so-true love that she cannot – does not – want to accept.
Daphne tells her she's mad, that Draco is a catch beyond compare, that she should fucking marry.
Her mother tells her she's lucky, that love like that doesn't come so easily to others.
It wasn't easy. She fought to dance with him; fought to engage him in conversation; fought to make him kiss her; fought to keep him.
Is he fighting for her, now? Fighting to keep her, to never let her go?
Is she even worth fighting for?
A/N: For the Feelings & Color Challenge at the HPFC forum.
Hey, what'd you expect...? :D