Words Left Unsaid
-Diane-
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone...
-Harriet Beecher Stowe
They were just words.
Expulsions of air and noise formed by the mouth.
Intangible, unpalatable, insubstantial.
Meaningless.
So why did she need them so much?
He had caressed her, stroked her, made her moan and writhe in pleasure with those long, pale hands of his. Hands that had prepared so many potions and graded so many papers now traced nameless patterns on soft, white skin; lightly outlined rosy lips, parted in delight.
What more did she want from him? Empty phrases, tired platitudes? He just couldn't understand how things like that could hold meaning for her.
Not that he could give them to her anyway.
He had tried, oh, how he had tried. He recalled many sleepless nights spent debating with himself whether to reach out and wake her, whether to whisper sweet-nothings in her ear and shower her with "I love you"'s. In the end, the words just wouldn't come and he would do nothing except lay there and listen to her slow, steady breathing, marveling how someone like her could be sharing a bed with someone like him.
It blew his mind. And his vocal chords, it seemed.
The funny thing was, he had never seen the problem. His twisted logic was that, if he just kept his mouth shut and his arms open, she would stay content, maybe even happy with their relationship. Words would only complicate things, make her feel rushed or forced into something she didn't want. And he could definitely understand why she wouldn't want any more of him than she already had.
But his reasoning didn't explain why her pillow was always slightly damp in the mornings. It certainly didn't account for the heart shattering look that came into her eyes every time she told him she loved him and was met with his silence But most of all, it didn't explain why one day she had packed her bags and just left.
She hadn't said anything. She had just looked at him with that sad yet stubborn expression she had worn so often in the past few weeks. Then she had simply walked out the door. His love, his life, his Hermione, gone, and it was his fault. No surprise there. It was always his fault. Only his fatal sense of pride had kept him from running after her and begging her to stay.
In the end, even those words she had so desperately wanted hadn't been enough. His soft "I love you" had been met only by her straight, firmly set back and the 'click' of the heavy wooden door as it closed behind her.