Hermionesclass101

It's hard work, not falling in love with you. I can never catch my breath around you. With a look, you tear straight through to the core of me. You see me, the real me, when you look at me, leaving me breathless and trembling from the vulnerability, the intimacy. Your presence overwhelms me, surrounds me, and sometimes it's all I can do not to drown in it, in your touch, in your words, in the way I catch you looking at me when you think I'm not looking back. I'm in awe of you. You make me feel perfect, complete and whole and worthwhile in a way that no one ever has. You take time to know everything about me, noticing the little things which

I'm going to tell you a story, okay? It starts with a girl. She's only thirteen, broken and small and unappreciated. Her hair's too long, her hips are too wide and her fingers are too fat. She looks in the mirror and struggles to find a redeeming feature; the only time she ever likes herself is when she writes, and that's not enough, never enough, because no one appreciates that either. She needs to be liked, this girl. She needs to be loved. She needs to be important to people who are important to her. And the people important to her, with few exceptions, have, thus far, damaged her, left her shattered, a shell of the child she was. "Stop

she judges the success of her day by the number of people she's complimented. she likes making people smile. her most successful has been eight. even on her worst days she manages one or two. people already feel bad about themselves too often, she thinks. it's nice to change it up. she demands a one to two ratio of insults to compliments in her life. someone insults her, she finds someone to compliment. she slips up and says something mean, she works doubly hard to up her count for the day. she just can't handle the negativity. one smile for every wrong answer, each little slip-up equals one more strawberry line on her forearm. things

she sits at the back of the classroom, head filled with dreams and stars and a collection of other things that have nothing to do with mathematic equations. she drums her fingers gently on her desk to a rhythm only she can decipher, playing on an invisible piano. Her eyes are glazed over as she watches a conductor no one else can see, eyes half closed to shield them from light that blinds no one else. or maybe it's a xylophone, the coloured keys telling a tale of how secretly she's a child, secretly she's too young for all of this. maybe it's her plea for someone to understand, to just know from the delicate way her knuckles move that she is

Dear crush, Did you know that you know more about me than anyone else ever has? Even my own mother doesn't come close. We've spoken of flaws, goals, insecurities, habits, pasts. You are the only one I am comfortable enough with to let my hair down - more literally than figuratively, and you know better than anyone what that means. And somehow, miraculously, you stick around. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever say or do something that will make you turn away from me. However, this hasn't happened yet.  You are there whenever I want me to be, even if it's usually at my request. You don't seem to need me as much as I need you - but you