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I did not meet you. You were not introduced to me. No. It was not like all the other stories. You happened to me. Yes, you are a happening, a presence, a force.

Two years of curiosity followed by three years of infatuation followed by three years of longing, all deeply dyed with an undying passion.

Then they ask, “After all this time?”

Snape and I answer, “Always.”

They call me sick, but I am not. They call you an ‘illness’, but you are not, and even if you are – then you are the most beautifully ravaging disease to which I willingly surrender.

They do not – cannot – know how you make me feel; alive and euphoric. The way Summer makes Tom feel “like anything’s possible, or like life is worth it.”

They do not understand. They never will.

A love affair doomed to eternal secrecy, trapped between stolen kisses and seductive glances? Is this our tragic fate? Are we not meant for each other? Are you not the one for me? Am I not certain about my love for you? I am not certain – will I ever be? I am not certain – but who is? I am not certain and “frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

I only feel. Is that not enough?

The thrill of clandestine pleasure is ephemeral and unfulfilling. I don’t want to hide my feelings for you when I see you in the street. I don’t want to walk away when you buy me flowers. I don’t want to pretend anymore.

But they won’t leave us alone. Are they scared of what we can accomplish together? Or do they not believe we can accomplish anything? Why do they haunt us with their logic and judgment? Why do they bother at all?

I may not die alone but, without you, I will die lonely.

Let’s be together.