Letter(s) To Burn
I heard a song today. It was called "Missing" and that seems appropriate because something is missing. Something has irrevocably gone, but the lyrics were off. They said "I miss you like the deserts miss the rain," and that didn't sound quite right to me. The deserts are removed from the rain. They are hot and dry and barren because there is no rain. It seems like a foreign concept to the desert. The deserts cannot miss the rain because the rain is ineffectual, it means nothing to them. It happens once in a blue moon, and not for very long. You will miss me like the deserts miss the rain. Which is to say, not at all, unless hallowed be my name upon your lips. It's there because you were reminded, not because you missed it. The rain, however, will always miss the desert. The rain remembers when there used to be vibrancy and water in this barren wasteland. The rain remembers when its droplets touched upon hot sand, staining it before being fizzled out by the oppressive heat. The rain remembers when it would pour buckets and the desert would drink from the silver cup of luxury. Each new drop a kiss to be shared between two equal and opposite forces. The rain remembers when the kisses were endless and thick humidity, created from heat and moisture, mingled together to create something intimate. When "I need you's" and "I love you's" were spoken and implied with every splash. The rain remembers the beauty that was created, the oasis' where there was safety in this place of death. That is how I miss you. The suffocating lump in my throat when I think of what we made, however impossible it seemed. It's gone for you. It meant everything to me. The deserts forget. The rain remembers. This will not find you and I hope it never ever will. I don't want to be the reminder, because somewhere in me I want to hope that though you have forgotten, you will miss me anyway. Sincerely... -
His therapist had told him it might be a good idea to write a letter. Get his feelings out, experience catharsis, and burn it. Cleanse himself of whatever he poured in. But parts were missing. One small letter didn't encapsulate everything he felt. As he read it, it felt complete for now - but it wouldn't in the near future. He would need to add more. It wasn't enough. At least that's what he told himself. In his heart of hearts he knew, this was his last attempt to keep himself tied to Harry. Even a little.
Draco folded up the note he'd written, the tears that were falling down his face having dried up somewhere between the starting sentence and the unfinished signature. Fat lumps had fallen on the parchment, and the ink ran. It bled into the edges and somewhere Draco thought that brought it character. The letters were incomprehensible in places, but he knows what it says, and his eyes will be the only ones to see it so it's not like it mattered too much. There's not a snowball's chance in hell he would have ever told Harry these things in person, though he wanted to. The next time he saw him, he hoped it'd be the last or the first of many. There is a never-ending battle in his heart. Part of him wants to be caught up again in Harry's arms like he never left. Part of him wants to never have to think about him ever again. Both parts want to be Obliviated of their thoughts. He's played the night that everything ended over and over again in his Pensive. Harry does not. He knows he does not. Harry's moved on and Draco has to deal with seeing his stupid face on every morning's Prophet like the sting never left. "You're not still thinking of leaving are you?" "I am." A long argument followed, and every time Draco wants to recall the words he's unable. But the next bit he remembers so clearly. "We can stay friends, can't we? I can compartmentalise! I can do that, I can be friends with you!" "You can. I can't." After that closure had been given, things were in order once more, at least they were for Harry. And while Draco didn't cry every day now, and he could ignore the ache in his heart for days on end, Harry remained in the back of his mind. Scenarios in which they'd meet that Draco would fantasize about. Idealised versions of what might happen. Snapping up one of Harry's friends in front of him. Just to get a rise. Just to see the look on his face. Seeing someone, unwittingly running into Harry again. Doing all the things that made him fall in love with Draco in the first place for someone else. Hoping he would be angry. Hoping he would be jealous. Hoping he'd slam Draco up against a wall, pin his thin frame to bathroom tile and ask him what he thought he was doing. Hoping that whatever killed Harry's love would spark again in a moment, that they would kiss again. That Draco would leave whatever rebound he'd suckered into this position the second Harry would pull him in for that signature heated kiss. That their ebb and flow never left. That the push and pull that drove them apart would once again bring them back together. But he knew it would never happen. They're different people, and Harry made it clear. He feels nothing for him anymore. There might be some spark lying deep deep down inside him that Draco might foster. But that spark was Draco's hope that this separation might end, and it was quickly dying. Blaise still spoke to Harry. Blaise assured him the interaction is business only. They talk of nothing personal, they do nothing personal, that the only time he's ever brought him up to Harry was when he was worried about him. But Draco's mind ran. That Blaise had taken his place. That those nights of passion, whispered words, reassurances meant only for him, were now being shared with Blaise instead. Logic rarely leads those blinded by love. Draco had hoped Logic would take over again soon, but it seemed a slow go tonight. The night had decidedly moved into territory that was generally considered unwell by society to still be awake. The clock in the corner of Draco's office ticked with the softness only gears could give. Echoing over the room, the only sound he was comfortable being near because everything else reminded him of the man who broke his heart. It wasn't always, he could listen to music, he could watch the telly, but in these moments when Harry ran across his mind like it was his job, there was no solace in melodies and rhythms. There was solace in silence and the uncomfortable feeling of sleeping on the sofa rather than his bedroom. The bed always felt so empty in times like these.
He looked at the folded letter once more, leaving it in the top drawer of his desk for easy access, though he did manage to have enough sense to stuff it in the back. It was all he had to say for now, but there would be more, he knew there would be more. Efficacy, that was his excuse. Made more sense to burn one big long letter than a million tiny ones. As he laid down on the sofa, the tufts catching him though they didn't give as well as springs, and pulled the blanket he'd brought over him he felt lighter. The knot of anxiety and hunger in his stomach had faded, warmth took over his body. Though it was stiff, it still felt good to be laying down and letting his exhausted eyes slip shut.
Thankfully, he did not dream of Harry.