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Chapter Eight

Sometimes love can make you crazy and sometimes it has an adverse effect, it makes you practical, intelligent, objective, but the problem is love is wild, creative and unpredictable. 


After a long chain of strange and over detailed letters with my mother, I have learnt that she is far too excited to give birth. Honestly, I’ve never understood why some baby-licking mothers always proudly exclaim how the day they gave birth to their precious child was the best day of their life. I’m no expert in the field of childbirth, but how can hours spent in agony, screaming only to produce a wrinkly bald human like thing, be the best day of your life? It doesn’t make sense. And what and where are you pushing?

In a letter to my mother, I fondly nicknamed the foetus, ‘Toast’, my mother thought this was a sweet sisterly gesture, so that once this child ‘popped’ out, we would be a family of odd and strange nicknames. Secretly, I wanted her to pick up the insult and realize that I was calling the foetus, it, the thing, Toast as precognitive (nice word, I know) nickname for the child’s life.

“Are you writing me a love letter? Because you can just say what you’re feeling, no need to write it down.” Louis says, putting a hand on my shoulder as he takes the seat next to me.

“Writing a letter to my mother,” I say, refusing to look up.

He’s gone mad in a somewhat witty, charming manner, but mad nonetheless. He’s flirting with me every second of every flippin’ minute.

He’ll make an innuendo out of anything.

It’s creepy.

It’s unappealing.

It’s downright attractive.

And then I lied to him.

I never (well, as close as one can get to never) lie to Louis and there I go spewing out absolute bollocks about how I sold my black book. There’s a reason the book is black, I can’t share that stuff with anyone, besides half the poems are shit.

There’s this one poem that I don’t even remember writing, which is an ode to how sexy I think my best friend is. Its existence is worrying. It’s the I-think-you’re-so-hackin’-sexy-I-want-your-babies type of poem. I don’t want him to read that. That stuff is private.

“You know if we had children, we could name them something strange like Peanut, Butter and Jelly,” he says, pretending to pay attention to Professor Adams.

“Lemon, Apple and Orange are better names,” I say.

“So, you agree to having my kids?” He smirks. Jerk.

“Sure, whatever.”

Oh dear, puppy dog eyes.

“So, if I asked you to be my girlfriend would you say no?”

The question buzzes in my brain as I slowly decipher it and decide the best answer, I close my eyes and with an unsure voice, I say, “no?”
He doesn’t reply as the lesson starts, but you can’t help but notice the thick grin spread across his face.

So, here’s the dilemma: I’m here, waiting for him to ask me out and then he doesn’t.

I’m confused, but I decide to just pay attention to Adams, because he’s one of those teachers who hate it when they catch students not giving him their ‘undivided attention’.

Trying to listen for once doesn’t stop me from overthinking and analysing what just happened, the fact is he likes me way more than I like him. And I know that people always say things like find a man who like you more than he likes you, so he’ll put all the effort in the relationship and he’ll treat you like a queen. But that’s rubbish, garbage, trash, or whatever the word is, because he’ll be there putting his heart on the line and I wont care. My not caring will break his heart and who wants the guilt of breaking their best friends’ heart?

And I’m not deluding myself; I’m being rational and sensible for once. I don’t know what love is exactly., I can’t even write a love poem. I can never finish writing a love poem, because love never ends and out of frustration I snap my pen, because love is too difficult and painful. 

I want my heart to jump up when I see his face and then play hopscotch when he walks towards me and when he finally touches me I want my heart to climb up my ribcage as if they were monkey bars.

You see relationships, often remind me that I’m not afraid of heights or falling, but I’m scared to death of every thing that’s going to happen the very moment that my body hits the ground.

As the lesson ends, I sling my bag on my shoulder, leaving Louis to his devices, because he’ll do whatever he plans on doing and there’s no point in stopping him.

Arisa wraps her around me. She can tell I’m upset, but I shan’t complain, Arisa has issues to. I don’t have the right to complain about my petty almost self-inflicted issues, when something is devouring her on the inside. There’s no point in pressuring her, she’ll tell me if she wants to and even if she doesn’t, I know that I’ve been a good friend, because I’ve been there and I always want to be there.

“I feel like a sugar quill,” she says, smiling.

Instead of replying, I twist and pull out a sugar quill and thrust it into her face.

“Merci Beaucoup,” she replies, taking it and beginning to munch.

Things are becoming easy again, slowly but soon it will be like nothing happened.

“What’s up, Louis walked away looking like a crazed and dazed?”

I am thoroughly impressed with her rhyme and try the words in my mouth, “crazed, dazed, and amazed.”

“Hmm,” Arisa muses.

“What are you thinking?”

Our arms swim the distance between us and link.

“Things,” she says, “too many things.”

A/N: HI! I updated again, by time you read this you may have watched the film! I will have! I'm already crying and dancing!

Anyway, i'm quite fond of this chapter, so I'd appreciate reviews, despite the crazy shortness of this chapter. :)

Just to let you know, I'm going on holiday, I'll be writing but not updating.

Merci beacoup= thank you

(haha, i didn't use merde [shit], in this chapter!)

Disclaimer: I don't own HP :)

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