Bloody hell.
I sort of don't hate you anymore.
It's a problem.
I fully expect my feelings to change once we see each other face-to-face again. I highly doubt you've stopped being a prat over just a month or two.
Why me?
I don't know how I feel about you.
Dorcas has a fool proof test for determining your feelings about someone. You just imagine snogging them and if you feel complete and utter disgust, you don't fancy them. If you feel something, well…
I did this once when Remus and I were becoming better friends. I was drinking a bottle of butterbeer and the image of me and Remus snogging felt so horribly incestuous, I spat my mouthful of butterbeer across the common room.
Yes, and I suppose you're keen on knowing what I feel when I imagine snogging you?
Another secret for you.
I
Um
Well
I like it.
Not fully and utterly like it…
Okay that's sort of a lie. Uuuugh,
I like it, alright? I like it I like it I LIKE IT.
Fuck.
But when I think of fancying you I get rather naseous.
I don't know.
What I do know is that if I did fancy you…
I am stubborn stubborn stubborn stubborn STUBBORN.
I would never be able to admit it to myself.
But I can't fancy you.
I don't.
Ha.
I found a Shakespeare sonnet in the book that my parents gave me for my birthday. The first half goes like this…
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
The next line begins with "O, know, sweet love", which certainly does not apply in this situation.
Ugh.
Great.
I've just given you a sonnet.
Somebody knock some sense into me, PLEASE.
-Lily
AN: The full Shakespeare sonnet Lily "gives" to James:
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent;
For the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
-William Shakespeare
Love that sonnet!