For Want of a Better Word

“For about a year now, it’s been hard to look at you. But not really. Only… kind of. Um, I mean, well, it’s not actually hard. Quite the opposite, in fact. I could stare at you forever, admiring your hair, your skin, your hands, your lips, your… Anyway. You’re probably one of the main reasons I’m not doing so great in some (okay, most) of my classes. Not that I blame you, of course! Not at all. Really. But, anyway, what I’m saying- well, what I’m trying to say, at least- is that the hard part is looking away. The looking at you part is- um, well, what I mean is- well, you know what I mean.

Right?

Maybe?

Possibly?

Oh, bugger.

What I am trying to say here is- wait, no. No, yes! Wait...I'm confusing myself. Um, anyway, what I mean is that I think you need surgery, because I’m thinking that maybe if you change your eye color, I won’t forget what I’m saying (and drop what I’m holding and trip over whatever I dropped) every time I look at you.

That came out wrong. Very wrong. I’m sorry.

Well, maybe it’ll sound better if I say… um… oh, here. You make me sick to my stomach. Wait- oh, that was awful! Terribly and awfully awful. I’m sorry. I didn’t actually mean that you make me sick! I meant that whenever you’re around, my insides start doing somersaults for some inexplicably unexplainable reason. That is what I meant. Yep. That’s what I was trying to say.

I… think.

Um, well, see, it’s actually kind of hard to explain. Okay- here goes. Just- don’t laugh. Promise?

(Please?)

Okay. I can do this.

When you walk into a room, my head starts spinning around, as if it’s an out-of-control merry-go-round spinning around and around and around until all of the little kids have gone flying off and- anyway, I lose my breath and suddenly I forget everything that has happened in the last few minutes (not that that’s anything out of the ordinary). Suddenly all I can think of is your eyes, your face, your smile, your walk- just… you. There is nothing in my head but you.

When you say something to me, I sit on my bed and replay those words in my head for weeks afterwards (that is, I replay them in my head for weeks. I don’t actually stay in bed for all that time.). When you say something to someone else, I want to hex them out of the way and take their place in the conversation (but then I can never decide which hex would be better. One time I finally decided, but then, well, I couldn’t remember the words.). Needless to say, you cause me an awful lot of mental ruckus.

When you laugh, my day gets brighter. The world seems better. Enemies and mean teachers don’t matter so much, and happy is so much easier to be than it was before.

When you touch me- even though it’s only ever a mere accidental brush- I feel deliciously electrified. It’s as though you set my senses on fire, except that that would be just a bit more painful. I don’t know how else to phrase it- you make everything more solid, more real.

When you smile at me, even if it’s just a polite ‘I recognize that you exist’ sort of smile, my heart does the tango, which is followed by the rumba, and sometimes even a waltz or two. You make me feel as if nothing in the world matters except for you, me, and chocolate (because no matter how much you mean to me (and that’s quite a lot), chocolate is always close behind). You make me feel like I could soar up into the sky and lay on the clouds (except not literally, you know. Because the clouds are wet, and that would be uncomfortable. And I imagine it would be rather cold. And then there’s the whole problem with solidity. Because, well, you know. Clouds don’t… have it.).

Whenever I see you in class, I feel like my hands grow five times bigger and my feet are as long as a clown’s. I can’t do anything right because I am too busy thinking about how wonderful and spectacular and amazing you are, and how much I wish you were mine. When I’m in Herbology, I can barely keep from doodling your name all over my textbook. That’s quite a compliment, by the way, because I love Herbology almost as much as I love chocolate (which is, as I’ve already said, almost as much as I adore you).

I don’t know how to describe it in a short way. It’s just too big to be quickly explainable. I mean, you couldn’t describe a troll in just a few words (well, maybe you could. ‘Aaah!’ would sum it up pretty well, I imagine)- not that I’m calling you a troll! You’re anything but a troll! You’re… unbelievable. In a good way, I mean. Not like, ‘Oh my gosh, there’s a troll in my living room, I can’t believe it’. More like, ‘Look at that person over there. Unbelievable.’ (Except, you know, that would be something you’d say if you saw somebody doing something ludicrous. And you’re too amazing to do something that would deserve a word like ‘ludicrous’.) Anyway, I’m just… not calling you a troll or anything… Um, anyway.

I know I could say that I love you, but that just feels inadequate. What I feel for you is so much more than love. Saying that what I feel for you is love would be like… I don’t know, comparing a frog to a toad. No, that’s not right. I think most frogs are smaller than most toads. It would be like… comparing the universe to… to a car park, or something. No, that’s rubbish too. Well, actually, I suppose what I feel for you is like love, but… intensified a million times. But there is no word for that much more than love. I guess love was just the best word anybody could come up with, so that’s what I’m stuck with. So- although it seems insufficient to say something so immensely gargantuan in just eight letters- I love you.

Love (for want of a better word),
Neville”

Neville Longbottom signed the piece of parchment and set his quill down. He was shaking and sweating due to nerves, even though the object of his affections wasn’t even nearby. Then he sighed. Dejectedly, he stood and crumpled up the piece of parchment that he had just been writing on. He then tossed the parchment (along with the quill and ink, for good measure) into the fire. Neville sat back down and put his head in his hands. Attempt number two hundred and thirty-three had been just as bad as the previous two hundred and thirty-two. At this rate, Millicent Bulstrode would never know how he felt.

The End