Remember Me [ Fred Weasley ]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐨 / 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕

{ Song: Moral of the Story by Ashe and Niall Horan }

𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭

A/N - I don't usually put these in but it felt crucial this time. The topics discussed in this chapter are not something I take lightly. I have done my very best to make sure that it does not come off that way and I will edit the chapter further if necessary. It is not meant to be amusing or entertaining, but an attempt to touch on something that is important, uncomfortable and difficult. The purpose of this will become clear later in the story. 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

There are no stages of grief. Losing him doesn't have a beginning or an end. It doesn't pass, it doesn't evolve and it doesn't stop hurting long enough to allow one deep breath to pass through my lungs without breaking the bones around them. What we had took months to build, but only seconds to burn. Now, that same fire is scarring each of our moments into eternal memories. You learn how to carry the burden of grief, but it remains as heavy and there is no end.

Ever since the night that Fred and I broke up, different habits and routines have begun to create new wheel tracks in the day to day life. One of those routines has become Cassius.

There is never really any reason for me to not stay at his dorm for a long list of fragile reasons that I convince myself are good enough to make it less pathetic. Some nights it's because I would rather have his company than sleep, every now and then it is the craving for another heartbeat and other times, it is nothing more than a desperate and soul twisting emptiness that makes me knock on his door.

Last night was no exception, meaning that the first part of my morning routine is returning to my dorm to actually get ready for the day. Unwillingly and exhausted, I gather my things to get ready for the day. When I quickly sort through the books that are required for each of the classes, the one that I have been trying to avoid since my love had turned into pain falls out from the pile.

With trembling hands, I reach for the orange notebook and the cover seems to be burning when I touch it. I haven't been able to bring myself to throw it away, even though all we had is gone. Without thinking clearly, I open up the notebook and graze the pages with my eyes. I seem to have forgotten what our last messages have been and when I turn what I thought to be the last page with words scribbled down across the lines, my heart skips a beat at the things that have been written but that I haven't read before.

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry

The same words seem to be written over and over on as many lines as there have been days since we broke up, covering both of the pages on the spread. They all look the same, a lot messier than the time he had left the message about that he was at practice and I wonder how hard he must have tried to get it to look as nice as it did.

At the bottom of the second page, the pattern of words comes to an end; changes, becomes something else, just like what had happened to us.

I'm so sor
I love you

Next to the last and sloppily scribbled words, a dried up small and slightly crunched patch stains the paper on the page. The line that runs through it is crooked from the way it had been temporarily soaked and then dried into something different than how it had looked and felt before. It's a perfect metaphor for love and the way he had broken it, and a perfect description of the feelings behind the tear that had caused it.