A/N: This is a piece I've been meaning to write for a long time, but I forced myself to wait until my writing developed enough that I felt I could do it justice. I'm aware that Harry isn't usually written from the first person, but I felt it was appropriate for this piece.
The music on the radio is vaguely familiar, but I can't figure out where I know it from. She sits on the step with her head bowed, arms curled around her feet. Her body language is clear – she's trying to protect herself. She doesn't want to be hurt any more. It's because she's still thinking about him. She's been like this for a week now, ever since he left, and has shown no signs of moving on. I hate seeing her like this. She deserved – she does deserve – so much better than him.
The song changes to one that I know far better. It's her favourite, the one she always listened to after they had a fight, the one that got her through all of those rough days. But there's nothing it can do for her now. Not alone, anyway.
I get to my feet slowly, the wooden floor creaking slightly under my weight. I walk towards her, each step committing me further to what I'm about to do. I come to a stop directly in front of her. She doesn't even look up at me. I extend my hand down to her, praying that this will work, that she won't just continue suffering in silence.
She looks up and meets my gaze. Then she reaches out and takes my hand, pulling herself up. She still looks depressed, and I worry that she might just be doing this out of politeness, not because she wants to. We walk slowly towards the centre of the room. She takes my other hand in hers.
Out of the three of us, she was always the strong one. She would do what she thought was right, and if people wanted to laugh at her for sticking to her principles, then why should she care? But she was different when it came to him. We're all different, when it comes to that one special person. We let our guards down more; expose parts of ourselves that we keep hidden from even our closest friends. Most of the time it's a good thing, because that person can love us even more for our faults and our regrets. But sometimes it just sets you up to feel even worse when they leave.
We start to dance. Slowly, at first, still nervous, a tear still sliding down her face. I empty my mind of everything else – even the music, and focus on her. She's beautiful. Even now, when she must feel so awful. I didn't notice until a couple of years ago, and I never did anything about it. It just seemed so obvious that she would get together with him, no matter how long it took him to realize how he felt about her. So I forgot about her – or tried to, anyway. I went out with a couple of other girls, but as great as they were, there always seemed to be something lacking, something that meant that things never worked about between us. And then I realized why. Subconsciously, I was always comparing them to her, because some part of my brain had established her as everything the perfect girl should be. Smart, pretty, confident, funny, and most importantly, genuine. She's never tried to pretend she's somebody other than she is, which makes her far too easy to love. It killed a part of me inside, watching him repeatedly mess up his chances with her, leaving her heart-broken. I always knew what it would take to put a smile back on her face. He never did. He just knew how to hurt her, not how to heal her. But at the same time, I was secretly rooting for him to continue being an idiot, because if things finally fell apart for good, I, as her best friend, would be in a perfect position to pick up the pieces. Which is almost exactly what I'm doing now. I try to convince myself that I'm just trying to help her get over him, and not necessarily on to me, but I'm not sure that I can. Not while her hair shines like that in the light and her eyes sparkle with some new idea.
The tempo of our dance increases. She starts to twirl, and spin, and a smile finally breaks through onto her face. The tension and nervousness disappears from her movements, and she starts to pull me through the dance, instead of the other way around. Any doubts I had about her wanting this dissipate. Her hand falls to my waist and mine to hers, and we begin to rock back and forth, not really to the beat, but that hardly matters. I love the feeling of her so close to me, the warmth of her breath on my cheek and her body near mine.
At some point, I become aware of the fact that the music has stopped. We come to a rest, heads lying comfortably on each other's shoulders. We stay there for what feels like an eternity.
I drink in every aspect of the experience – the feel of her head on my shoulder, the sweet smell of her hair, the silence that surrounds us, making me feel like we're the only people in the world. I do this because I know it won't last. Eventually we'll break apart. She'll go back to her grief. He'll probably return, too, and maybe he'll finally have gotten a proper head on his shoulders and maybe he won't have, but what does it matter? She might walk away from him, but she won't turn to me instead. I don't think she's ever thought of me the way I do of her – to her we're probably like brother and sister, always there for each other in times of need. And in a way I do want to be like her brother; I want to be that perfect mix of sibling, best friend and partner that so fosters true love. But I waited too long. I let her think of me as just a platonic friend, not a potential soulmate.
She pulls away slightly, just enough so she can look right at me. Our eyes meet, and I read sadness in hers. Regret. Sorrow. And maybe even love. Just not in that way.
I want, more than anything else in the world, to pull her into my arms again and kiss her. Tell her how I feel about her, open my heart to her and just let the chips fall as they may. Her head leans ever so slightly in towards mine and for a second I think she's going to kiss me. But she doesn't. She stops herself. Her head was in motion for the briefest of moments, so short that it could have just been a twitch. But it wasn't.
I look her in the eye, challenging her to walk away. Challenging her not to acknowledge that there's anything between us, to kiss and make up with him when he comes back as if nothing happened.
She stares back at me, eyes filled with regret. A single tear forms in the corner of one. She blinks, and it disappears. I am spellbound by her beauty and her grace, her charm and her wit.
She lowers her eyes to the ground, breaking the spell. Then she turns and walks away. I don't follow her. Who knows – maybe it could have gone that way. Just not in this universe.
I was an idiot to believe, even for a moment, that things were any different. Maybe it's better this way, not knowing what would have happened. It'll be easier for both of us. As easy as letting a loved one go can be, anyway.
It's funny, because as long as we've known each other for, it was our first dance. It will also be our last. It's not that I wouldn't want to do it again; it's just that I don't trust myself that close to her. I might be tempted to open myself up, make myself vulnerable. I don't want to be hurt anymore. Not after the hell I've gone through. And that means some things are better left unsaid.
He comes back a couple of days later. Apologizes, tries to win her forgiveness. She accepts his pathetic pleas after a while. Then they fight again before the week is out. I comfort her. She looks at me differently. Maybe it's something, maybe it isn't. I'll never know.
They get married five years later, their problems finally sorted out. I do too, to a redheaded girl who makes me perfectly happy. It turns out he finally got his act together, and their marriage seems to be a happy one. Mine is as well, but there's always a voice in the back of my head that compares the two girls I love. Somehow, my wife never seems to come out on top of those comparisons. But I made my choice, and now I have to live with it. Every time I see her with him I think about what could have happened. But it never did, and I suspect I will live with that regret forever.
"Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson