DEAREST, pansy parkinson

iv. false hope

Dearest L,

I suppose we are alike in more ways than one. I cannot be my true self. I am not necessarily afraid of disappointing everyone, but of what comes after it. I cannot be alone, and I don't know how you bear it. 

You succeed at hiding behind shadows, I fail at embracing the spotlight.

But this is me trying, right?

And I'll try as hard as I can, but sometimes, no often things just don't go my way. Things never go my way. 

I'll still try to live my life to the fullest, though. Even if I'm scared, even if I hide. 

It seems there is much distance between you and me. That doesn't make much sense, we'r both in the same building right now, but it feels as if you are three-thousand miles away. Distance makes me sick. 

I often find myself turning my head in the hallways, scanning each and every student as they pass by. It's stupid really, I don't know what you look like, I don't know your name, I don't even know what your bloody house is.

It's tiring, and it's pointless. I cannot go on, L, I'm getting quite restless. 

And I don't think I can do it anymore. 

I understand you want to stay hidden until the time is right, I truly do, but I am as impatient as a hummingbird, sitting in front of a birdfeeder, waiting for mealtime.

You interest me, you do, and I want to know you. Not the person hiding behind these letters, the real you. But I don't think you'd show me until you felt you didn't have to hide anymore.

Even if that was forever. 

But I cannot wait for forever.

As much as I love reading your letters and learning more about you, I think it's best we don't speak anymore. We should both get our lives sorted out and as much as I think you need me, I'll never know, will I?

Sincerely, and for the last time, Pansy