"Why won't you let me go?" and you do not know the answer. One thing you do not know. Her.
Love? Is it love? Do you love her? Maybe you love her. Keep telling yourself you love her.
[you do not love her]
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Mother? You are just like your mother. Love? This is not love. Obsession? Maybe this is obsession. This is obsession.
Yes, you are obsessed with her. The secrets from the past that are so close, so far, the way her lips move in the silence, the iridescent colors of her hair, how her eyes are brown and black and hazel and gray—how, how can you deny that you are not infatuated? This is a joke, you tell yourself, because you are not like your mother, but then again normal people fall in love and you—you—
You, Tom Marvolo Riddle, are not normal, not ordinary. You are a lush red apple and you have fallen onto the roots of her tree and regrets? Regrets? You have none. Absolutely none.
You are obsessed with the spark in her eyes and the strength in her legs and the dream in her voice. You, no matter what you tell her, are not in love, and you will never be in love—
Slytherin, you are a Slytherin, by name and choice, and you cannot feel love, just duty and obsession. Love is not an attribute you can place . . .
Love? Obsession? You are not in love.
You are obsessed with no regrets.
word vomit, i have no regrets