"God blessed the broken road that led me straight to you"
I'm never quite sure how to begin when I write to you. In fact, I'm not even sure you get my letters. Of course, I never expect a response, it's far too dangerous, but I hate to think that someone else gets these letters. Eros comes back to me without anything tied to her leg, just like always, so I know someone's getting these. I comfort myself by thinking that I'm not saying anything dangerous- after all, it's not like our relationship was a secret. It's just that I still think of you as a confidante and I always have something to tell you.
Like today. Today I woke up from the most wonderful dream and could have sworn I felt something kick in my belly. Of course when I put my hands there to feel, it was as flat as ever. I scrunched my eyes tight, hoping I could recapture the dream and try to avoid reality. It wasn't our first child, since there were many more running around my feet- I think it may have been our last. Nothing extraordinary happened in the dream: I simply rocked in a swinging chair on the porch and you played with the children.
I know I don't need to tell you more- you already know. You've had those dreams yourself (well, not with you pregnant per say, but something along those lines); I know they wake you up in the morning and all you can do is cry because they weren't true. No, neither Ron nor Hermione has told me, but I know. I know in the same way that you know.
I wore that blue tank top that you love so much today. I let Mum braid my hair, just like you love, and I put flowers at the ends. I made a daisy chain for Hermione to wear tomorrow for her birthday; I hope she'll get it in time. I fed the chickens and did the dishes and was a good girl, just like you asked.
I'm not sure why I keep doing this- doing those things that you love or have asked of me. Maybe, if I'm good and keep doing them, that'll make you come home. Maybe, if I was good and you knew, you'd come home to me.
Each night, after I write my letter and send it off, I hate myself. I hate myself for letting me wallow in this dreamland that I know will only make me more miserable. I hate myself for not listening to you and not moving on. I hate myself for listening to you and staying.
But I stop. Why do I hate myself for doing the only thing that gets my through the day? I don't think any of us would be okay if I didn't pretend. Pretending to Ron that Mum is doing just fine, that yes she's worried, but she isn't angry with him for leaving, lessens my anger. Pretending to Hermione that I am keeping up with my studies, not just practicing on the unfortunate trees and gnomes, lessens my longing for Hogwarts. Pretending to Mum that I'm okay, that I don't miss you too much, lessens my longing for you.
I can't pretend to you though. It's pointless. Nobody else has seen me at my weakest; nobody else has seen me so completely. You'd see right through me as you'd read my letters of happiness. You'd notice the tear marks that I'd try to hide. You'd notice because to you, I was never all that invisible.
Certainly I was pushed to the side, I am your best mate's sister, but you never ignored me. You always had a smile and a hello for me. If something seemed off, you noticed and commented, even if that only made me more embarrassed. I tried to do the same for you- after all, that's only fair. You tried to smooth out my life and I tried to smooth out yours. Even if I only succeeded in smoothing a wrinkle, it has all been worth it.
I heard a song today on the muggle radio. I can't remember all of it, only snippets of the chorus, but I couldn't help crying. The singer was so grateful to all the bad things in his life because they had brought him the love of his life. I couldn't stop crying as I listened to it- it reminded me so much of you. You have no idea what saying that to me meant. It's sometimes so hard to entertain the idea that obsessive, silly me could be the love of your life, what you've been searching for.
It would kill me to think that has changed and something tells me it hasn't. I found the daisy ring this afternoon- why you hid it in my desk drawer, I have no clue. It's slightly dried out, but still looks perfect. I cast a charm on it to preserve it and I'm going to try wearing it soon. Send any objections, however hidden, back with Eros. I'll notice any change on her, don't you worry. If there are none, I'll send you a grass chain, since it's quite unmanly to wear a daisy ring. Isn't Daisy a beautiful name?
It makes me laugh to read that last paragraph; I sound so little again. I probably shouldn't say little, since we had silly little conversations like that as we walked.
I still have your pillow and it still smells wonderfully like you. Tell Hermione that Crookshanks is doing well and he misses her horribly. He's still doing that mewing/searching thing and seems to be convinced that she's hiding under my bed. Pig, as Ron will be delighted to know, it doing quite well and has found himself a girlfriend. I don't like her too much, she's a little full of herself.
I'm still here, no matter what you wanted me to do. I still love you, no matter how much you tried to convince me otherwise. You're still what keeps me going, no matter how much pressure that puts on you.
You know how to reach me and I'll be there the second you need me. I'm a lot like Mum- I have my ways of knowing.
Come back to me.