Loving you was like a steak knife driving into my heart. It ripped, it bled, it tore.

Whenever I'd see you play the selfless hero, that look you got in your green eyes, it dug in deeper. It was never perfect or precise like the webs of crimson I made on my wrists after you were gone.

But I loved it. I loved you, no matter how much pain it brought. How little I knew then.

I still remember the way the wind smelled, blowing over the grounds that day. The way you took me aside, kissed me hard, and looked into my eyes.

"Ron, you know I love you, right?" you said, those eyes I loved so much searching my face.

I knew right then what you were going to do. I didn't want you to go. You couldn't leave me.

But I couldn't tell you not to. Not when the fate of the world depended on you. I think that's when I started to cry.

"Ron, I have to go." You were starting to cry too. I could feel the shudder in your breathing as you held me.

"I know."

You kissed me again, held me close, and you went. I remember the look on your face when you promised me you'd be back.

And the one promise that counted, you broke.