finished

*This is all JK Rowling owned. I make no money. I want no money. Just love!

“So then…you’re not even going to try? This is just…it? You’re done wit. Wi. With us? After all the shit we’ve been through, all the times you told me you loved me, all the times I held you as you sobbed—you’re just *giving up*?!”

I smiled sadly at his naivety. He looked so shocked, so outraged, so…confused. As though he had orchestrated this whole scenario weeks in advance and here I was, pretending like I never got the script. I obviously didn’t know my lines, and the director was none too pleased. God, I loved him at that moment.

I also hated him with every fiber of my being.

But I guess that’s the truth of it all—the only way you could ever truly hate someone is to love them. Those emotions evoke the same physical response; walk a very fine line, a line that our relationship tangoed over since the very moment we laid eyes on one another. It wasn’t a fairy tale romance by any means; after all, how many fairy tales have two male leads? But we were happy. We made do. We loved one another with a fire and passion that would make avid romance fans swoon with envy, and we did things in the bedroom that would make the jaded and cold members of high society blush like nuns in a convent—one of the few that the priests hadn’t infiltrated, if you get my meaning.

And now we were over.

“I love the rage in your voice, Draco, so accusatory and hurt. I almost believe you mean it. But if you truly wanted to stay, then you never wouave ave left, right? You never wanted me to fight for you before. In fact, you always made it perfectly clear that you came and went as you pleased, that no one can steal you, that I needn’t be jealous. Remember? Or are the lies too fuzzy now? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that *you* left. *You* made this decision. All I’m doing is helping you follow through.”

He stared at me blankly, his long blonde hair, hair that I so loved to run my hands through, inhale his sweet scent from, hiding most of his face from my view. This was a typical defense. He hid from me in every fight, not wanting to be touched, even when sobs wracked his frame and it killed me not to hold him. I always tried to respect his wishes. Our fights normally involved long stretches of silence combined with short bursts of semi-thought out speeches, our passion-filled voices echoing throughout the rooms of our two bedroom apartment.

He had insisted on that, having a room of his own. He claimed it was for appearances, so people wouldn’t get suspicious, but I knew he didn’t give a damn about what people thought. He never shied away from holding my hand in public, or being playful in front of strangers or friends alike. When people asked if he was single, he always said, “No,” and when it was followed with, “So who is this girlfriend?” he would coyly respond, “What girlfriend?” and squeeze my hand/leg/ass or whatever other body part that was readily available and smirk cockily.

God, I will miss that smirk. But that is beside the point. No, he was not afraid of what people would think—he *knew* what they thought, and he loved every shocking moment of it—no, no. He wanted his own room so that he could be away from me. I smothered him, you see. He became my world. He claims that I am his world as well, but I know a load of bullshit when I see it, and that, my friends, is one stinking pile of fertilizer. He could never stand to be with me for too long, and thusly, after a torrid night of lovemaking and my ending up far too tired to make the commute back to my own flat, when I suggested that we move in together, I was hardly surprised when he insisted on a two bedroom.

Yes, it hurt. Yes, it continues to hurt. But al tha that will be over shortly, because we happen to be in the middle of severing all contact with the love of my life right now, and while that may sound melodramatic to you, it’s looking just this side of an understatement to the little man who controls the tightness of my heart. Damn you, Herbert. Loosen it up a bit, mate. I need to breathe. I need to do this right.

He always claimed to put just as much of himself into me as I did into him. That was a big line in all of our arguments: “I put too much of myself into you.” What does that even mean? I’ll never forget when he threw the shoe at me—well, not *at* me. At the door *inches* from me. But I know he wanted to throw it at me. Knock some sense into me. I said some pretty horrible things those few days. About how he wouldn’t try to be deliberately mean to me because that would involve *effort*. Holy mother of God, he was pissed at the implication that he didn’t try in our relationship. I do believe he told me that if that was the way I truly felt, then I could “get the fuck out.”

I refused. I wonder what he would have done if I had gotten up and left. Would he have followed me? Would he have wanted me to come back, so that we could continue fighting about fighting, and decide whether or not to remain together? Or would he have just breathed a sigh of relief and been thankful that if was finally over?

But why rehash old fights when the current one is so much more exciting?

“We always fight about the same thing, you know. I don’t know why you have to be so selfish. I do everything for you, I *live* for you-“

“BULLSHIT! That’s bullshit and you fucking know it! You live for me, my ass. I don’t know why you’re still even here. I’m finally giving you what you want. Get out. You left the first time. Remember how easy that was? It’ll be even better this time, because you won’t ever have to come back. Just send an address and I’ll make sure your stuff gets to you.”

Again with the blank stare. God, I really want to just slap him. How can he be so calm?! Has the man no feelings?! Doesn’t he realize I’d die a thousand deaths just to be with him, if that would make him happy? But it wouldn’t make him happy. I don’t make him happy. And I just want him to be happy. Another popular line in this song and dance we do so well: “I just want you to be happy.”

What fucking liars we are. I want him to be happy—but only happy when he’s with *me,* and, as it turns out, he’s happiest when he’s out and about and, sometimes, away from me. Far away. With other men. And sometimes women. He wants me to be happy, but I guess he never realized that I’m happiest when I’m with him. And this isn’t working. It was doomed from the start. An anxious and an avoidant happy together? Yeah fucking right.

Well, I’m breaking this cycle of pain. No more pain for him, and, after a while, I hope no more pain for me. Sure, I might have to drink until my liver explodes and cry until my tear ducts run raw and seep pink tears, but I’ll be okay.

Whoever said falling in love is hard on the knees had better add something in there about the liver. Mine’s about to take a beating.