A world so hollow
'One' – somehow that is a word I never really applied to myself. 'One' is so… singular. And that I am not. Not at all. I'm not an 'I'; I am not a 'one'. I'm part of a 'we'; I am part of a 'two'. Of a twosome that never should have been broken apart. Like, ever. We were so happy. We were fine, we were great! And I… well, I'm not. Not happy. Not fine. Not great. I'm just lost. I've never been good at being by myself. Gladly I almost never had to be. By myself, I mean.
Weird, isn't it, how quickly a 'we' can become an 'I'? In the blink of an eye, the split second of a last laugh. Well... at least you died with a smile on your face. I wanna do that, too, you know? Well, not right now, how could I, but… someday. I wanna die with a smile on my face, just like you. Sounds peaceful, doesn't it? Too peaceful for what really happened. But hey, at least you went down battling some Death Eaters and did not die of a boring old sickness or being too old or something as profane as that. See, I'm trying to stay positive. Even though you left me forever – and what a harsh word that one is, forever! – I try. I'm really trying.
It's tough, you know? But what can I do, they're all expecting me to get well soon, to go back to being a prankster, to joking and laughing. I know they do. I see the way they are looking at me, trying not to burst into tears because it's just me they're seeing, not us. Mum still puts a plate out for you every time she sets the table. Nobody dares to sit in your chair, nobody dares to crack a joke, and nobody dares to even smile. Sometimes I think they really are waiting for me to break the silence surrounding the family. But I can't. Not now. I don't know if I'll ever be able to. It's so strange, being home when home isn't even home anymore. I hate sleeping in our old room, seeing your bed, all of your stuff. You were the messy one, by the way. I never really noticed until now, but my side of the room is way neater than yours. Well, technically it's my side of the room now, too, isn't it? Well, I don't want it. I don't want any of it. And I especially don't want to think of things as 'yours' and 'mine', when it was always ours.
And I hate thinking of me as… well, as me. Not as us. I want it to still be us. Sitting at our little kitchen table above the shop, plotting our next big hit, planning new strategies to make the life of Filch as miserable as possible with our merchandise, or even just bickering about whose turn it is to cook tonight. It would be your turn, by the way. It's Tuesday. But from now on it will be my turn to cook on Tuesdays, and on Thursdays and Saturdays, too. I'll be cooking pretty much every day when I get home to Diagon Alley. Or not eat at all. I don't know yet. I don't know anything about what I'll do when I get back to the shop. Or if I will go back there at all.
I don't know much these days, you see? I feel empty, I feel weird. And I don't even know why I'm writing to you, and maybe I should have started this whole shebang with 'Dear Fred, how are you? How's being dead treating you?', but… well. We've never been great with pleasantries, have we? All I know is that I miss you like crazy, but on the other hand – who doesn't? The Burrow is crowded with people, but it's quieter than it has ever been in here. Everyone is sitting around the kitchen table miserably, whispering to one another and suddenly stopping when I enter the room. As I said, no one is ever sitting in your chair, which makes it even weirder, this visible void makes me feel so… so hateful. Sometimes I think that maybe I should go up to your chair and just plonk myself down on it and act like that's totally normal – which it is, it's just a chair, after all! – but I can't. Somehow I can't bring myself to do it. Instead I never sit down at the table at all. Just get some food out of the fridge and retreat to the quiet sanctuary of our room. Hah, our room, an oasis of peace and quiet – who would have guessed that? And now I'm almost laughing, and it feels weird and good and traitorous and so much needed.