She kissed him because it was an escape from the neutrality.
She was alone and, although she didn't feel the loneliness, she knew it should hurt. She knew that the feelings of hurt and pain and loneliness surrounded her, kept out by her own cage, her own life, her own barrier against things she did not understand.
She didn't know what to do with herself anymore. Everyone cared about something, didn't they? But not her, she simply pottered by. She heard them hiss things about her sometimes, laugh and snigger and whisper, whisper, whisper…
Sometimes she acted. It was own little play, with no audience. She'd sigh, maybe rub her eyes, maybe smile, maybe look at pictures of her mother and pull a sad face. But it was all an act. She didn't care. Her heart never fluttered in her chest, her eyes never filled with tears, and she certainly never smiled inside.
They called her 'Loony'. But she wasn't crazy. Because if she was crazy, she'd feel emotions, unstable and unnecessary, maybe, but real. She, on the other hand, felt little more than an odd, infrequent coldness.
Yes, sometimes, she'd feel the cold. Sometimes she'd wrap her arms around herself and shiver at a cold no one else seemed to feel. Sometimes she wondered if the coldness was coming from inside of her, the ice within her freezing her emotions. She could only feel this coldness in her weakened moments, while she was going asleep or thinking too hard, but she knew it was forever present.
The coldness was the only thing that got through the bars of her prison.
But the coldness was better than nothing.
She kissed him because it was an escape from the neutrality.
She always felt the coldness when with him. When she looked into his eyes, she saw he was as disconnected as she was. He held no warmth for her nor her for him. Maybe he was in love with someone else, someone she couldn't have, or maybe he was just incapable of love. She'd heard a girl say that once about him. Or, maybe, maybe he was incapable of all feelings, like her.
She sometimes wondered why she wasn't sorted into his house, when she sat in her red, alive Common Room. The fire often taunted her with its vitality. She never felt the heat it gave out. She was never quite sure she wanted it.
She kissed him because it was an escape from the neutrality.
Because, if not for him, she would know she had actually died on the same day as her mother when she'd been nine years old.
She certainly couldn't be alive anymore.
Ugh. Wrote this today when I was in a very terrible bad mood. Don't know what to think about it. It's kind of… sad. Anyway, it's another view of Luna so I just thought I'd spit it out! Reviews would be lovely and could be cheer-inducing!