A/N: Thanks all of you, the support is really sweet. ((Hands out chocolate fondant)) And because I felt so guilty over having the last chapter so short, so here's a continuation of the last chapter just for you guys.

Disclaimer: Only own the plot and whatever characters I make up.

Chapter 7: Secrets Aren't Meant To Be Read

15th September 1977

Dear Rose,

Good things happen to those who wait – isn't that how the saying goes? I've been waiting and waiting and waiting, and nothing good's ever happened.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I don't notice enough. Maybe I'm obsessing too much over the smallest things. Maybe I dream too much. Maybe I'm not doing things right. Maybe, maybe I'm living in a dream that will never come true.

I wish and I hope and I dream, and that just shows how much more pathetic I am. Everyone knows wishing and hoping and dreaming won't do anything. You have to do something, act on your impulses, trust your gut feeling. Problem is, my impulses left a long time ago and my gut feeling sent in a resignation letter.

If only I had some of the determination that Nicola has. If only I was as clever as Isabel. If only I was as pretty as Melanie. If only I was the one everybody liked and Felicity was the one who was shunned. If only everything that I wished and hoped would happen happened.

If only this, if only that. Sometimes I know when I'm wishing too much; sometimes I know when I'm hoping too big; sometimes I know when I'm dreaming too impossible. And all of the time during that sometime, I know I can't do anything about it. I won't do anything about it.

I know I could be as determined as Nicola; I know I could be as clever as Isabel; I know I could be as pretty as Melanie if only I tried. But the maddening thing is that I can't. I won't. If only I tried, and if only I had the courage to. But we both know I'm the weakest and wimpiest person on the face of the earth, if not the universe.

I'm wasting so much ink on you, Rose. And ink is something that I have to conserve nowadays. Money is getting tighter and tighter, as are my clothes and my shoes. Even the smallest things, like a Dime Chocolate (as they call it in tribute to the muggles) from Honeydukes is getting to be a luxury. I badly need a new quill, as this one's been chewed to pieces and I can barely hold it anymore. I'm surprised that there's been no ink blots as of yet.

This is just what I need. Another reason for Felicity to tease me about. I might be overreacting to you, darling Rose, but sometimes one needs to overreact to realise what is truly happening. And sometimes when you find out what is happening, you break down. Completely, totally and utterly.

I can't count the number of times I've sunk to my knees in defeat. I can't count the number of times I've cried until I was exhausted from crying. I can't count the number of times I've wished that I was someone else.

Life is a staircase, Rose. You can go up or you can go down. The trip up's harder then the trip down, but that's the way everyone's heading. Up and out of their dreary lives while I'm stuck on the ground floor with a broken leg and so many floors to climb up. If only there was a lift, but there's never an easy way up. I know I have to, but a little part of me, the weaker part of me just wants to give up and give in, take the easy way out and just quit.

How simple it would be, to give up like that. But a forgotten side, a weary side, the small side, the part of me that's still strong and still determined won't let me give up for sheer pride. I want to give up. How badly I want to but I won't let myself. I won't give up on me.

Isn't that funny? I'm not giving up on myself. When the world walks out and I'm the only one left in the dark room known as my mind, I rely on myself. No one else to rely on, is there?

I haven't felt a human's touch in years. My father's so sick he can't move and my mother works day and night just to support all of us. I can't remember the last time I got a hug from anybody. I remember a long time ago, when my father was well and we were getting along in life just fine, he told me that a hug would cure anything. Absolutely anything. A hug could cure a cough, could cure a cold, could cure a fever, could cure depression – anything. But it didn't cure him. I'm not allowed to touch him or be in the same room as him.

And especially now, I've given up on that. I doubt a hug could cure this, because I'm fairly sure that a manic and clinically depressed girl could not be cured by a hug.

You weren't there when I needed you the most. And that hurt more then the stinging insults that Felicity threw at me, because you said you'd always be there for me. You're not here for me now. No one's here for me now. When I said I'd like a hug last time, Dad, what I meant was that I needed one.

But you weren't there to hear me.

Love,
Lily