The Harry Potter Alliance

By Amanda Bolton

March 10, 2009

Choices

We all know the choices we make matter. They have consequences, whether soon or in the distant future. We don’t always know what the right choices are, and sometimes we know but it’s too hard to make them. Either we are too shy, or too scared, or too uncertain. Sometimes the timing just isn’t right. Most choices aren’t really that important, but sometimes they are.

Ron and Hermione clearly had a thing for each other fairly soon after meeting. But they kept silent about it, awkwardly dancing around the topic, denying it, pretending it didn’t exist. They were too shy, or not yet ready, to confront how they felt. I had a similar experience in my teen days that I want to share with you. In my case, I acted more like Ron and he more like Hermione, but for simplicity, I’ll call him my Ron.

We met in band in junior high. I was 13, he was 14 (a year ahead), and we both played trombone. I quickly got a big crush on him. He was cute, smart, talented, nice, and had a quirky sense of humour like me. We quickly became friends. I drew little hearts with our initials in my school notebook and made sure he didn’t see. It was painfully obvious to everyone else that we both liked each other, but being young, we weren’t so certain, and said nothing. This definitely lead to some awkward moments, but we had good times too. I took him to my junior high prom. Even then, we never said anything. I remember one New Year’s Eve, I was trying to convince myself to stop being so shy and finally talk to him. It was New Years, I could even probably get a kiss out of it. But I didn’t. I was still too shy. I wasn’t ready yet.

Then as high school started, I fell for another guy. A guy who was all wrong for me, but I didn’t see it. Ron tried to help me see how I was hurting myself, but I was blind to it. Despite the fact that he felt like his heart was ripped out, he was still trying to look out for me. Eventually everything ended horribly. In this time, my friendship with Ron had become very complicated, very strained. Although I finally came to my senses and stopped dating the guy who was all wrong for me as I finished high school, I ended up falling for someone else who had helped me through this difficult time. He was a very good guy, and we were a great couple in many ways. We ended up getting engaged to be married. I know this must have crushed Ron, and we stopped talking. But over time, my fiancé and I realized we were going different directions in our lives, and we wouldn’t be happy on the same path. So we broke up. It was the right choice for both of us.

What I didn’t tell anyone was that all this time, I still kept thinking of Ron. Thinking I might’ve made the wrong choice. Ron was still such a wonderful person, but I knew I had hurt him too badly. Not surprisingly, he didn’t want to talk to me. He didn’t want anything to do with me. So I left him alone.

A few years went by and I was now off in graduate school. I suddenly got an e-mail from Ron, and he’s ready to talk again. Enough time had passed that we’d been able to heal from the horrible moments we shared. Slowly, we talked and started to build a small friendship again. So much time had passed, I didn’t know who he was anymore. I didn’t know the adult Ron. But I feared hurting him again, so I stayed distant. I let him make the moves. But we were still painfully shy.

So more years passed, and we finally began to forget the past and look towards the future. We weren’t as scared anymore about doing things wrong. We enjoyed meeting each other briefly over Christmas breaks when we both happened to be visiting home at the same time. (We live in different cities far from where we grew up.) Finally earlier this year, the time had come when we were both ready to confront what we had felt since we were young teenagers. I sent him a message saying that after all these years, even though we were now 29, not 13, I still had a crush on him, and I still wanted to date him. And he replied that he felt the same way. But we still lived in different cities. From my own previous and horrible experiences, I refused to have a long distance kind of relationship; even friendship is hard over a distance.

So I resolved to finish my schooling as fast as I could so I would finally have the freedom to do whatever happened to come next. We didn’t really discuss it. I knew I would be too busy to start a good friendship while I finished, so I let him know, and that I looked forward to talking more once I was done in May. I imagined we’d talk through e-mails more, maybe even on the phone. We’d see where that would take us, if anywhere. Whatever happened, I just wanted to know, and I’d be content with it. I had spent the last two years daydreaming about it, little fantasies where we hit it off well and were happy together. He was unlike anyone I had ever met. Normally I can read people easily, but he was a mystery, and one that I wanted to explore. I wanted to learn who he was, who he had grown to be. We’re only 29, not very old, so no need to rush into things. I wanted to do it right and wait until he could get my proper attention. Whether things worked out or not, I just wanted to know.

But since it isn’t May and I’m writing this, you know something didn’t go according to plan. Maybe it was something good? Maybe something bad? In Hollywood, there is usually a happy ending. But this isn’t Hollywood. In Harry Potter, we feared that in such a dangerous time and place, one of the trio might be killed. But that was a book, and JK spared their lives. My reality isn’t that dangerous, though we never know what will happen. So I made my choices. We’re 29, we’re young, a few more months would be worth the wait and the risk. We had already waited 16 years.

Four days after my birthday last week, when he last wrote me a little note saying hi, he died quite suddenly from a brain aneurysm while he was sleeping. No warning, no suffering, he just went to bed and never woke up. So my Ron is gone. I lost my chance. My choices didn’t work out. I’ll never know who he was. I’ll never get to try to solve the mystery that was him. I had 16 years, and it was wasted. My choices were bad. It was easier to say nothing; I took the wrong path.

But I’ll live with my choices. I’m glad we at least did, shortly before the end, finally admit how we felt. If I hadn’t done that, I’d really hate myself. Instead, I feel sad, and disappointed, and angry, and many other things. I feel horrible for his family, who were all really close, so suddenly losing their eldest son. I’ve only lost a friend. One whom I didn’t spend enough time with.. One to whom I never got to say the things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him how special and important he was when we were young. I wanted to tell him how much I respected him. I wanted to apologize for all the pain I caused him. But those will always be unsaid. All I can do is tell his family, if they want to hear it. Because of a rather complicated past, we’ve kept this secret from everyone. I can’t say what Ron felt or thought about it, only what I did. So his family and my family don’t know how much this hurts. I lost a friend, but I also lost what I thought, for the last 16 years, might be my future. I just feel lost.

So watch the choices you make. Most of the time they aren’t important, but you never know what might happen. Do what you can each day to let those important in your life know that you care. You are never too busy for that. And do what you can each day to help others in the world. That one day might make a big difference in someone’s life. What I have left now are only memories from a long-ago past, and silly fantasies of a future that will now never happen. I didn’t take the time to make any new memories. And that is my deepest regret.

I write this not looking for sympathy or compassion. I don’t want it or need it. I’ll recover and find my way again. I write this for you. We hear this message all the time, that time is precious and live each day like it is your last, but I hope, just maybe, with this story, some more people will take it to heart.