Fiction:
"She's dead," Harry sighs. He drops his face in his hands, a sob shuddering through him.
"I'm so sorry," I said honestly, wrapping one of my skinny arms around his stiff, buff shoulders. How can shoulders even be that hard! "I know you loved her."
"It's not your fault," he says. He shifts in my arms, and cups my cheek with a shaky hand. "She was my mom... I loved her with everything in me. Is it... Is it bad that I somehow... Feel something stronger, though, for someone else?"
"No," I said, disappointed. It must not be me. Which is the exact reason why he's cupping my cheek and practically telling me he loves me. It must be some other girl. He probably stares at everyone with enough love to blow up a small planet. I'm not special.
"*cue ordinary and overused name*, I love you."
I gasp, because it's not a story if I'm not gasping.
Reality:
"She's dead," Harry sighs. He drops his face in his hands, a sob shuddering through him.
"I, uh, that... That, um, yeah... That sucks..." I said, dropping my hand on his shoulder. "Sorry."
"You should be."
"Huh?"
"It's all your fault."
Wtf.
"*gives super shitty reason as to why it's your fault and never speaks to you again*
:)
