Disclaimer: Next time I look in the mirror, I shall try and remember not to delude myself that I am a) pretty, b) rich, c) intelligent or d) The owner of HP and his universe.
The first bit is based partly on my real life experiences, so if you have something horrible to say about it, I'd rather you didn't say it.
Seeing SidelongThey always put our names together, one after the other; it's always his name first. So many people say them that way that it sounds wrong to hear the names switch places. In newspaper articles, diary entries, letters to friends and family, my name always takes second place.
We study together, work together, more often having fun than not. Every time there is a test, it's always me that's beside him, cramming at the last minute as she shoots us disapproving looks.
We get the test back, a percent and a grade. At first glance, the paper is identical – we both scraped through. At second glance, the first figure of the percentage is ten below his. I force a smile on my freckled face as he slaps my on the shoulder. The monotonous lessons go on and on, all the same.
Voices flicker constantly in my mind as if creating a tennis rally. The sensible half of my mind tries to reason with my heart.
You can't get A-and-a-fraction. At the end of the O.W.L.s, he won't come out with A-and-a-half; you won't come out with A-and-a-quarter. You will both get an A.
But his will always be higher than mine will. The examiner will draw those three symmetrical lines on the paper, marking that owner as of equal intellect of all other in his grade boundary; a wide, sweeping grade boundary from scraping through to being right without the honed skill of selective guessing.
He moans constantly that people are talking about him; he never stops to listen to the praise. He seeks out all the rumors, and turns a blind, bespectacled eye to the good. At the end of the year when he achieves his goal, he turns the shiny coin over to find the tarnish. He thinks he leads such a hard life compared to me; how can he know? He has never stepped from his shiny, bucked shoes into my tattered hand-me-downs.
The audience sees the stage, with their hot spotlights that follow him, never behind the scenes; yet the play would be nothing without the backstage crew.
His starring role would be sung capella, his props remain by the door.
The lights would be fixed to one solid spot, and not roam all over the floor.
The programs with the names embellished with curls would be left on the side table.
Not tossed aside, with their back facing up, left for the chair to cradle.
Looking at the fairytales, I can relate them easily to real life. I don't want them to come true. He's the hero, everyone sees him first. I'm taller then him, I can cast a bigger shadow, but I always get lost in his. Will she ever be able to see me through the shading?
They see us as the trio, like in my family, I'm always lost in the middle of the list. He's the brave; she's the brains, and me? I'm just the dude that carries the bags. Why won't she add her load?
He's the brave one, the winner with the smile, the past the present and the future. He's the guy who, in the fairytales, would get the girl. I'd be the one standing by his side, passing him the gem that would bind him to her for their lives. I don't want it to be that way.
I tried to speak out once before, but the words came out all garbled. I can see her sitting beside me; will I ever get a chance?
"A chance at what, Ron?"
A chance for you,
I love you.
I always have,
I will always do.
If only I could find
A way to prove this to you.
"Sorry, I was thinking out loud again."
"Did you mean that?"
"Mean what?"
"Never mind." I see her walking away from me, her eyes sparkling like glass.
Walking into his arms.
Reviews would be appreciated xXx
Would you like a sequel?