A Love Story

It's starting again. The low, sick feeling of hatred that starts in my stomach and claws its way up my throat. I chuckle to myself, thinking, This must be a record... I've only just walked into the common room and you've pissed me off.

It's easy to see how you do it, though... Daphne fucking Greengrass is in your lap. Giggling. I catch your eye from across the room and your face changes into something like guilt. Your eyes say, Sorry, there was nothing I could do...

Which we both know is bullshit.

I look at the ceiling, swallow, and head towards my dormitory. Sometimes I want to kill you.

-----

About two hours later, you find your way up to me. I'm lying on my back, staring at my Herbology textbook that I'm holding over my face. My arms are getting tired, but I don't move once you come into the room.

You lean across me and pull the book away from me. You're about six inches away and I'm trying very, very hard not to spit in your face. You smile.

"Hey, cutie." You kiss my cheek, resting your chin on my shoulder.

"Hey," I say, into your ear.

Your hand's traveling across my stomach, going dangerously low. I absolutely cannot believe your audacity.

I gently grab your hand and push it away.

"Not tonight, sweetheart... I've got studying to do."

You kiss me and say goodnight, shutting the door behind you. You don't hear the words I hurl at your back; they stick in the door, quivering like darts.

"Man whore!"

-----

This is beyond teenaged romance, now. This has gone too far. I love you too much, and I've expected too much from you in return.

There was a time when I thought you loved me. Maybe there was a time when you did. But I was never your girlfriend, not once. You kept your options open; I was just the one-night stand that kept coming back for more. You are a terrible person for letting me fall in love with you. You've broken my heart countless times...and I don't think you even know.

And yes, I'm at fault for letting you come back, for letting you fuck countless others and not saying a word. I'm a sniveling coward for hanging on your arm like some kind of trophy. I trusted you so much when you were good to me, I was convinced that you were my match and no one else could love me like you did. You treat me like a princess when you have time.

And now, I'm pretty convinced that no one else would want me, anyway. I am unlovable, and beggars can't be choosers.

I just have one question that I need to know the answer to. It haunts me. I scream it out loud into my pillow when you break my heart; I hear it over and over in my head to the rhythm of our sex.

WHY CAN'T YOU LOVE ME?