I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t hold it in anymore. I love her. God, I love her. She’s perfect. She’s beautiful. She’s kind. She’s everything. An angel.

And she’s taken.

Taken.

How is that fair? I love her—and I’ve lost her. She’ll only ever see me as a friend. Just a friend. And I don’t know what to do with that.

Tom Riddle. That bastard. That arrogant, cold coward. How did he win her heart? What has he done that I haven’t?

Has he stayed up holding her while she cried? Picked her up when she was too drunk to walk? No. He hasn’t. I have.

Me.

I’ve loved her for years—since the very first time we met in first year. And I’ve watched her slip further from me every day. I’ve done everything. I deserve to be hers.

He exhaled, sharp and shallow, and put the pen down. His heart was racing. His hands were shaking. He hated this. Hated how weak it made him feel.

But it was the truth. He was hopelessly in love with you—and that truth was destroying him.