She’s become my
addiction and she doesn’t even know it. Part of me wants her to know – wants
her to feel me out there. Watching her. Checking how she dresses. And what she
eats. And who she spends her time with. Watching as she opens her dorm room
curtains first thing in the morning. And walks to school. And shops for more books in town.

I take note of
some of her favorite things – like yogurt-covered pretzels, practicing wand spells, and nice, threaded scarves.

And I know when
she goes to bed, usually around 11:30, right after reading about I can
only wonder what.

That’s the bad
part – not knowing EVERYTHING about her, despite how hard I try. Even when I’m
up close, I can’t always hear what she’s saying in conversation. I can’t always
watch her lips, for fear she’ll catch on, which would ruin everything.

I want to talk to
her. And sometimes we do talk. But it’s never very long and we never say
anything important.

I can’t be myself
around her. I can’t relax or open up, or show her all the pictures I’ve got
tacked up on my wall: pictures of her at the library, in front of her dorm, and
in Hogsmeade on days off.

Lately she’s been
talking to everyone, even to people she never normally associates with. She’s
been asking them questions about something that shouldn’t even matter to her,
something she shouldn’t even know about.

Luckily, she
redeemed herself, though. We got really close recently. Or, should I say, I got
really close to her. At first I thought it made her nervous, but then it seemed
like she kind of enjoyed it. Because she didn’t back away.

I want to get
close to her again. I want to see how far she’ll let me go – how far I’ll have
to push before she has no choice but to let me in.