er. i don't know what this turned into. this seems to happen a lot to me; oh, well. read it, tell me whatcha think. :D
This isn't going to be a love story.
I've said it and now you can go back and find something more appealing to your growing hormones where my breasts are heaving and his muscles are chisled remniscent to the cover of a romance novel.
No. Us? We're not a love story. I know what constitutes a love story. A love story doesn't have weeks without showers; it doesn't have hair or blood or stench or cold or tempers that run cruelly high. A love story is a fantasy and we are real people. No, it isn't nor will it be a love story.
In romances there is a predetermined formula: meeting, liking, fighting, loving, resolution. There's plenty of kissing and gasping and misunderstanding and over-the-top declarations of love. There's that one love scene, where the two wake up next to eachother and share a secret smile and run their fingers through each other's hair and over shoulders and backs and faces.
Beauty is a significant aspect of your typical saga. Without beauty there isn't anything. It's the human race's flaw; we're not attracted to love unless both halves are beautiful. I? I'm no beauty, I know it, I accept it without regret. I've never been called pretty without dipping my hair into Sleakeazy potion; the closest compliment I've got otherwise was Harry telling me that he didn't think I was ugly. And Ron? Well, I was definitely attracted to him. I can say that much; he wasn't ugly. But he was no Harrison Ford either.
Han and Leia are a love story. Humphrey Bogart is a love story. Indiana Jones. Baby and Johnny. They have everything, and they look beautiful throughout. There's kissing and passion and everything that warms the hearts of females.
... No. I was not part of a love story. I couldn't. I was busy, he was busy; there were more important things in the world than me and him. Life did not revolve around us; right then, it was Harry. There was simply no time to develop anything; we were too exhausted, our minds were too focused towards the end goal of the fate of the wizarding world to throw something as delicate as a relationship into that hurricane.
I was not with Ron. Not in any sense other than companionship.
Yes, there were our school years. The bantering and flirting and tiny steps towards what may be a hopeful, hesitant relationship. Trust me, I know it. I knew what was going on then - far before he himself had any idea. Now we both knew, however, and now we both knew that the other knew, and we looked at eachother and I knew that he loved me and he knew that I loved him. We had established that much, him and I.
That's all we needed, really. There was love between the three of us; it was our sole weapon against the Dark. Both of us loved Harry and, by consent, we were more devoted to him than to anything between us. We didn't hold hands. If we slept next to each other it was simply because that happened to be the spot where both of us dropped in exhaustion. We didn't kiss. We hadn't kissed. The closest we'd gotten to kissing was a significant look between us as we slept in a dirty, smelly tavern.
We weren't a love story. No. This is not a love story. Ron and I had the essential groundwork, but it's like stopping a potentially good movie right before anything juicy happens.
In a love story, there's a happy ending and when the movie credits start or you shut the covers of your book, you automatically assume that the two lovers are going to be suspended in that happy moment for the rest of their life.
"The End" is a lie. There is never an end. Time doesn't stop for your convenience. If it did, I would still be in that moment where Harry killed Voldemort, with me hugging him tightly and hard and laying a sound kiss on his cheek. That was the happy moment. Actually, once I think about it, it would have been the start of a potential love story between Ron and I since we had been put on a five year hiatus. It wouldn't have been The End. The Beginning would have been a more suitable title.
No. There is no end to our non-love story. Ron and I can't finish our love story that never really was one because it never really started or developed. It can't be concluded; it doesn't have a resolution so much as an abrupt halt.
I kiss Ron at the end. It is our first kiss. But is it really? Does kissing a bloody body count as a first kiss? I honestly wouldn't know. Perhaps those of you who are still around may be slightly satisfied by the fact that my breasts are heaving, now, and Harry is behind me to try to get me to calm down to stop my hyperventilation as tears drip down his own dirty and grimy face.
This isn't a love story. We were too late for that.