Lovers*** we are. Lovers is how we live, how our hearts work. Lovers keep us from pointing the wand at ourselves and taking the coward's way out. Lovers stop the fear; lovers ease the confusion as spaces are left in our lives too big to be filled by ordinary feelings. But what do we do if lovers become the feared, the mistrusted? How does it feel to find yourself shuddering at the touch of your dearest and to rather spend nights on the lumpy couch than spend even a second in a bed already occupied? Does it eventually tear you apart?

Acting is easy. Lying is a piece of cake. So, why does it feel like buboter pus in my mouth if the acting and lying involve you? Why does it burn somewhere, too deep inside to be quenched, when your eyes take on a guarded look every time I speak. How can I gain your trust, when I can't even believe a word you say? Mentally, I plead with you to take the fear away, to destroy the doubt that rots my heart. But you're deaf to my pleas, and in my heart you're already dead to me.

Barely a word passes between us anymore. Silence is supposed to be calming, but it isn't when fraught with tension so sharp it wounds you physically. I know you think I haven't noticed; you believe you are invisible to me. But it's hard to avoid the way your shirt slides up your back as you sleep, curled in a ball; the way you never sleep facing the ceiling anymore. You think I don't care, but I do. I see the marks all over you, the stench of blood in the bathroom, the discarded razor blades, your lack of energy and your reluctance to move an inch. But why, when you force yourself to leap up the stairs, do I see a look of pleasure lingering around your mouth? Why punish yourself?

I can't stand blaming myself anymore; can't stand the pain of seeing tears flowing down your face, your blood splashed on the mirror; can't stand the realization that it was me, all me that drove you to resort to such brutal means. So please, don't think it's your fault. I caused it all. It was I that listened to the rat, brought doubt on top of you. I wish I could have believed it sooner, that wolves never bite the hand the loves. Good bye Remus, this is so I never hurt you again.

Forever yours.

Padfoot