Waiting

He is always the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing I think of at night. I lie in bed for at least fifteen minutes with my eyes shut, controlling my breathing, trying to recall every detail embedded in my brain about him. Every single detail that I can think of to form a complete picture of him in my head, so that maybe I can pretend he hasn't been gone for so long; so maybe I can pretend everything is still normal.

Sometimes just picturing him isn't enough, and I bring back one of my memories of us together. Some of my favorites include our first real kiss, or how it feels to have him hold me in one of his impossibly perfect embraces. I try to remember everything, anything.

Nobody has heard from him in months; nobody knows where he is, or what he's doing. We're trying to keep fighting, however we can. I proudly think of all the times I've rebelled against this tyrant regime, no matter how small. He'd be proud of me, I think.

It gets harder every day. The first thing to go was the memory of his scent. It's like forgetting a spell--you know it exists, and you know that you once knew it, but you can't recall it. I can't remember his unique, warm boy-smell that radiates from him and clings to his clothes. I know it's there, somewhere, and I know I would recognize it if I inhaled it, but describing it is impossible.

Some mornings I can't be sure if I dreamed at all. On these mornings the weight eases a little bit, but it's both a curse and a blessing because it feels as if I've lost him all over again. On the other hand, if I dream about him, I feel the sting and emptiness of his absence that much more because it felt as if he was so close again.

I try to keep my mind off of him and what he's doing. At breakfast, I review notes from classes while I eat, though most of what they teach us now is crap. If I do this, it's easier to ignore the empty seats where he would have sat with Ron and Hermione. The entire table leaves them a seat, as a way of honoring them. It drives me nuts, but at the same time, I think all of Gryffindor would curse the poor fool who decided to sit there.

Every now and then I creep into the Room of Requirement. I go in there with the intention of having a good cry, not to mention escaping the hell that my second home has become. But every time I try, I find that I can't cry.

The Slytherins have been coming up with nicknames to try to taunt me. The 'Weeping Widow' is the newest one. This one doesn't bother me as much as some of the other ones have. This one doesn't make any sense; I can't weep, and I'm not a widow.

I wish I were that lucky.

If I were a widow, I could grieve and move on, knowing what had happened. Everyone would feel sorry for me, but eventually I could close this chapter of my life. It's sad, yes, but it can't be worse than the waiting. I would allow myself to fall in love again, to start a family, try to maintain some sort of normalcy. But until I know what happened to him, I will wait. I will wait for as long as it takes; I believe he will come back for me, he will still love me.

Won't he?

How long must I wait? A year? Two years? Five? Or am I like Penelope waiting for her wandering Odysseus for more than ten years? Or am I more cursed than that poor soul? Is there a lifetime ahead of me waiting for the closure that I know will never come?