Work Text:
Dear Caelum
Dear
Lestrange,
I’ll probably never send this letter, so it’s pointless to get the address right, but I want to pretend I could send it. I know you don’t want to hear this, which is why I’m never going to tell you, but…
I think I might be a little bit in love with you.
(written again, four times, lines of ink digging deeper into the parchment with each iteration.)
I don’t know why. I don’t really want to be, either, but there’s a feeling I get when you’re around that I’ve never felt with anyone else before. It’s just you. There’s another boy I even tried to fall in love with, but I’ve never felt the way around him the way I do with you. Even if he probably deserves it more.
I know love isn’t about deserving. I wish it was. I wish I could be with him, and be happy about it. It would hurt him if he ever read this. I’ve told him I just don’t feel that anyone. It’s almost true. It’s only ever been you, and he’s never going to know about that.
But I have to say it, because the part of me that’s capable of falling in love is stuck on you and it’s driving me slowly crazy. So,
Caelum Lestrange,
I know we aren’t lovers. I know we aren’t even friends. I know that we’ll probably never be either of those things, but:
I really, really, like you.
More than makes sense. More than is fair.
I think about you, even when I shouldn’t. I care about you, when I shouldn’t. I spend my daydreams thinking about the shades of blue in your eyes and what it might feel like to card my fingers through your hair, and every time when I realize what I’m doing I’m a little disgusted with myself, because I know what you would think.
But it doesn’t stop. There’s a little part of my mind you own, and it’s not going away.
When I’m done with this, I’ll crumple it up and throw it into the ocean. I don’t want to burn it, but I don’t want to have to think about it, either.
—Harry
Dear Harry,
I didn’t want to write this down, but Rispah told me I’ve been bottling up too much, and it was this or talking. Did you know one of the benefits of having a friend like you is that I never talk?
You’d listen, if I did, but you never push. You don’t try to drag out all my secrets like Rispah does—maybe because you’re so used to having them about yourself. I like that about you. Maybe I shouldn’t.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Maybe I shouldn’t like you, the way that I do.
You’re brilliant, Harry. You stand out like a bonfire in the night, and everyone sees it. Some of them are afraid, some of them are angry, some are content to stare awhile and take in the beauty. I fell in love.
I don’t blame myself for that. I do wonder, sometimes, if it was a mistake.
I’m so, so, sick of waiting for you, Harry.
It’s unfair, which is why I’ve never said so, but I am. I’m so sick of waiting. And I’m thinking maybe I’m done. Not because you’ve finally caught up to me, the way I always thought you would. Not even because I’ve realized you never will. But because I’ve realized this is unfair too.
It kind of hurts to be saying this, Harry. I always thought I was the kind of guy who would wait for you forever. I didn’t think it would cost anything but my own pain, and that was a price I was fully willing to pay. I’m not anymore.
I love you Harry, but I think this is poisoning us.
If you ever change your mind, if you ever decide you want me, know that I will fall at your feet. I don’t think I could ever say no to you, Harry. But I’m killing that dream right now. I’m not going to wait for it anymore.
Tomorrow, I’m going to go out on a date with a girl who is not you, and when I come home, I’m going to be what you need for me to be—a friend.
No expectations. No inevitabilities. No hopes to rest my heart on (that you have to hold up.)
Just me and you.
—Leo
(From the desk of Caelum Lestrange, scrawled out slantwise in unbalanced handwriting at the bottom of a sheet of notes logging the result of a series of experimental potions)
—show her a mistake—