Seventieth

And.

You know what?

Maybe I'm not special.
Maybe I am nothing special. Not interesting at all.
I am not gifted. I am not insightful, I am not particularly lovely in any one way.
And my past and connection with Harry Potter is typical, and childish. And really doesn't explain everything I think it does.
And High School doesn't define me as a person, and I don't think of it often. Because it wasn't hard. And I didn't face anything I didn't want or need to.
And I'm not a good writer. I'm average. I'm probably below. Nothing happens inside when I type, when I write or scribe, and no one has been touched, and no one kept my letters.
And my love life is normal, and understandable, for someone of my age and charm.

Maybe at the end of the day, there really is nothing special about me. Maybe if you look close enough, the way you really want to, you'll realize I'm not half as interesting as I appear to be. And maybe five years, or two, after my death, no one will remember me.

And maybe I'm okay with that.
because
really
I don't have to impress you.