Source: google images

I remember the day, exactly a year ago. I think I saw it online first. On my google news update feed. Alan Rickman is no more. The 70 years old British actor finally gave in to the battle with cancer. And somehow what I saw in my head was a sallow faced, aquiline nosed man in black robe lying against a glass window. His long sleek hair is falling over his eyes. He knows the inevitable is waiting at the doorstep. And he is really exhausted. Exhausted of getting hurt by his dear ones. Exhausted of being hated and humiliated the entire life. Exhausted of being misinterpreted. Exhausted of being caught in the middle of that thin strip where black becomes one with the white. And you thought Harry Potter alone was the hero of the story?
I cried the night Professor Snape left us. Death is inevitable and it is merely the transitional phase to the next life. Yet I cried. Even after a year I have a painful lump in my throat while writing this. But that's the beauty of true love, isn't it? It remains even after the subject of your affection is long gone from your life.
We will always love you, Alan.