My angel says you're my soul mate, sometimes, late at night, lying tired and almost delirious by my side. She says there's no one in the world that makes me feel the same as when I'm with you. I shake my head and say it's not true, that I love her, but deep inside, I know otherwise. I love you, Katie.
I know you're my soul mate, Katie. I didn't need Angelina to tell me that. I needed her to believe it, that's all. There's no way to explain how I know, it just is, glaring and obvious and in my face. Something about the look in your eyes, or the way you smile, the way you make me feel as if nothing else could ever matter.
Or maybe it's something else, like the way we used to kiss, back in our sixth year, like two girls that really did love each other. Did you love me then? Tell me, darling, did you really mean all the things you said?
Maybe you did, but sometime along the line, you lost the ability to love, and you replaced it with one of your stronger emotions. Fear, anger, hate… they took you for their own. Your eyes grew dim, and no longer sparkled the way they had before. Your smile became little more than a forced curve of tender lips. I knew in my heart what my brain could not comprehend: you'd stop loving me.
We battled on, struggling to make love when there was none, struggling to at least keep up the appearance of sanity and normalcy. No one knew you were dying inside, dying to be free of love and all the bondage you seemed to attach to it.
Love isn't about obligation, Katie. It's not about you or me, what you can and cannot do. It's about growing and freedom. Love is about flying, Katie. It's about being boundless and free, knowing nothing can touch you, or at least feeling that way.
You said you loved me the other day. I heard you whisper it under your breath, mumbled like so many hexes and curses. I heard it, and I knew it was true.
You love me. I love you. We are soul mates. It seems like any old romance movie, or the books my angel reads, kept locked away in her trunk. But it's not like that, it isn't that simple, my darling. Love isn't enough for us.
You broke my heart, Katie, when you said the words you'd later swear meant nothing. It's too late, Catherine, too late for midnight kisses on the moonlit Quidditch field, too late for whispered promises of devotion or another of your lies, whispered in between hurried gasps.
I'm not going to let her down, Katie. I'm not going to risk Angelina for you, or for anyone. I love her, maybe not the same as I love you, but I do love her.
I don't love her in the way soul mates love, that strange tugging, that, though invisible, holds your life in the balance. It's not the kind of love you can't get out of your head, not the kind of love that makes your stomach tie in knots whenever they come around, or your heart seem to explode in passion.
My love for Angelina is a pure love, a simple love. It's the kind of love that makes me buy her long-stemmed roses and champagne, write her poetry and love letters soaked in perfume. It's the kind of love that makes me open doors for her, hold her hand, and smile brightly after her hurried good luck kisses.
It's the kind of love that makes me listen to her, late at night, listen and know she's right. I love you, darling, but it's Angelina I will come home to everyday. It's her I'll hold every night, her I see in my dreams, her children I will raise, her house I'll call home. Even still, know I love you.