Why do we start stories when we already know how they will end? Do we enjoy putting up with the torture? Why do we live our lives all happy when we know there won't be a happy ending? Why do we say "I love you." when we don't really mean it? And why am I still waiting for you to come back?
Every time I look at the picture of us smiling, I cry. How could we be so happy then? It was a perfect day. Your eyes were filled with sunshine. Your arms were around me. My face was tilted up, looking at you. Your lips were brushing my cheek.
I held your note in my hand. I had read it over and over again, trying to decipher its true meaning. Had you truly died for me? Not a day goes by when I don't think about you. That one day six years ago, when I last saw you. I could see the tears slide down your face. I miss you so much.
I hated life with Ron. He has a stupid job, advising the Minister of Magic. He complains about it everyday. I say nothing. All I do all day is sit here and think about Draco. Ron doesn't let me leave the house. I don't think I could anyway. I'm so withdrawn. I don't talk to anyone anymore. No one loves me, and I only love Draco. My Draco.
I should kill myself. Maybe then I can see Draco again. Atleast I won't be living this hell of a life anymore.
I take out my wand, but, changing my mind, grab a razor instead. For the first times in weeks I smile. Carving Draco's name onto my skin, I am elated. Finally, finally, I will be with my Draco again. Ron comes home, finds me covered in blood, and barely alive. He doesn't even flinch, just advises me to make sure that it's obvious it's suicide. That only makes me smile. Soon, soon, I shall be with Draco.
Just before I leave this life, I laugh. Ron turns and stares at me. I whisper "Happy ending", and then take my last breath. Here I come, Draco.