“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”
“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.”
Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: there was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.
I write to forget about how I used to treat people, but the more I write the more I realize I am still the same person. Doesn’t hurt, it just sucks. All of my progress may be for nothing. People always ask me how I got around to being so beautiful. There’s no beauty in passion that’s dead. I write from deep within, my breath gone with the wind. I write from an empty source. Where it comes from? Hands that have let go a long time ago. She asks me, will you ever get over her? Will roses still be red during full bloom? I need to change, but how do I change where it hurts? How do you change something you feel? I fucking can’t. I’ve been trying to change, darling, I’ve been avoiding my emotions. I’m scared to be alone. I’m scared to lay on a bed alone. Won’t you forgive me? I thought I’ve come a long way, but it’s all a front. I thought I could get over you, but I can’t. I can’t remove this heart of mine. The feelings are all old, the leaves have grown back, but they’re falling again. The heart has healed, but it’s cracking again. I’m not alive without you, I’m empty without you. I’ve been filling wilted flower vases with my tears, I’ve been handing them to you in my sleep. It’s the only time I get to see you. She asks me, are you really over? I tell her yeah. That’s the truth. We can’t love again, change does that. I can live another year, I can live my remaining decades, I can let my poetry flow for centuries– but if I needed to live in eternity, if I did… I know we don’t get a second chance, we tied hope onto a broken branch, every red balloon floating to the closest star– that used to be us. I want to get better, I do. It’s just taking like a whisper of your last words.