A/N: I've always imagined Remus as a writer. I get a perfect picture of him holding a quill, his face scrunched up in though as he searches for the perfect inspiration. This is RemusOC, during the MWPP era. Reviews are very welcome. Flames are not.
This is for all writers who are in the same situation as Remus and I.
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I write for her everyday. I write poems that tell her how I feel, songs that I probably will never sing, verses and stanzas that reveal all my emotions. When I write, I seek inspiration, and I always end up thinking of her. I remember every smile on her face, and every conversation in the hallways. When I write about her, everything seems so clear. When I write about her, I am in a fantasy world, a world where there is actually a possibility of some form of reciprocation. This is why I love to write; when I write, I am in a world of my own, a world easier to face than reality. This is why I love to write, why I write for her everyday.
Reality is such a difficult world to live in. In my world of poems, stories and songs, I hold her close to me and kiss her under the night's sky, dappled with stars and absent of a moon. In the real world, my existence, though not unknown, is something trivial for her. In my world of fantasy, there is every possibility of us getting together. In reality, there is no chance because she doesn't know what I am and won't accept me if she knew, much less love me.
There are times when I want to stop writing, to take down the world I've created, and in doing so, kill these fantasies and unrealistic dreams, and return to the real world, a world of logic. Yet, as I see her each day, inspiration floods my senses – and my logic – like an addictive drug. I get a new fantasy to add to my world, new false hope to fuel my creative train of thought.
So I continue to write, even if I risk mixing a world of miserable logic and illogical bliss in the process. I send her some of the poems, unsigned, occasionally with a rose. It takes a lot of my effort to suppress my smile as she tells all her friends how in love she is with the mystery guy who sends her these poems. I long to tell her that "Mystery Guy" loves her as well, but I hold my tongue, knowing that it's best that these feelings remain hidden.
Every time I see that she likes what I've written, I am thrown into a world of pure bliss. Her opinion of what I've written will always, always, always matter more than any review even the most famous critic may give. This is because a critic's review make an improbable dream come true; somehow, her opinion can.
You see, my dream is for her to reciprocate my feelings. As I observe her as she reads my work, her eyes have the same fire that I see in mine whenever I think of her. It is this fire that makes me content.
She is in love with me, though only through my writing. That is enough for me.
