#soeyekonic

you shift beneath the weight of your quilts, blinking at the ceiling canopy above. the fire in the hearth has long since gone out, and the room is chilly in a way that settles in your bones. “is it today already?” you murmur, voice still caught in sleep. esther smiles softly. “the winter ball, miss.” there it is, again. the same phrase you've heard repeated all week. tucked into every conversation, wrapped in silk and expectations.

you rise, and esther moves wordlessly to help you dress. your corset is pulled taut against your spine, the ribbons binding your waist like duty. the gown your mother selected, a soft winter blue with white embroidery at the hem, waits atop your dressing table. you hadn’t chosen it, but you hadn’t protested either. you've grown used to yielding.

downstairs, the drawing room smells faintly of dried lavender and ink. your mother sits near the hearth with a cup of tea in her hand, posture perfect, and her expression as composed as ever. “you’ll wear your hair up tonight,” she says without looking at you. “with the pearl comb, the one your grandmother wore when she was presented.” 

“yes, mother.” “and you will be agreeable. smile when addressed, dance if asked.” 

“of course.” her eyes meet yours then, cool and assessing. “the warwicks will be there. lord william has returned from oxford. his father says he’s grown into quite the young gentleman.” you lower your gaze, feeling the familiar weight settle in your shoulders. the kind that isn’t from fabric or from expectation, but something deeper. “i will do what is expected of me.”

the hours pass slowly. hair is curled and pinned, unpinned, and pinned again. perfume is dabbed along your throat. you practice your smile in the mirror, but each time, it feels like it belongs to someone else. your younger brother pops his head in at one point, grinning in that irritating, knowing way boys do. “try not to scare off every suitor, y/n,” he teases. you say nothing, it’s easier that way.

when evening falls, the carriage ride to the rutledge estate is quiet save for the sound of the horses’ hooves against the damp stone. your mother sits across from you, humming contentedly. your father dozes lightly beside her. the manor looms ahead, all warm candlelight and trailing ivy, windows glowing like watchful eyes. you step out into the cold, velvet cloak wrapped tightly around your shoulders. the night air bites, crisp and still.

inside, the ballroom is a flood of colour and sound. laughter, violins, the faint rustle of silk. chandeliers sparkle overhead like frozen stars, and every corner seems filled with perfume and movement. you stand near the edge of the floor, gloved hands folded in front of you. smiling. nodding. doing as you must. someone approaches. a gentleman in plum velvet offers his hand, bowing low. 

you accept, you dance.

then another.

and another.

you cannot remember their names.

you excuse yourself after the fourth dance, murmuring something polite about needing air. the ballroom feels too close, too smelly, too perfumed, too bright. slipping between glittering gowns and laughing guests, you move toward the edge of the hall near the corridor. the crowd thins, but not enough. you’re not watching your steps, not really.

then, a shoulder catches yours sharply, sending you stumbling back a pace. you gasp softly, reaching for the wall behind you. “oh!” a voice exclaims, warm and immediate. “i am terribly sorry! i didn’t see you there.” you blink up, breath caught, and your words dissolve. the girl before you is radiant, though not in the way others in this room are. she wears a gown of soft, buttercream yellow, delicate and regal, with lace spilling from her sleeves like blooming petals. her bodice is fitted with perfect symmetry, embroidered with pale pink threading, and atop her head rests a crown of pearls. subtle, but unmistakably noble. her hair falls in dark, coiled braids, gathered and styled to one side, with a few soft curls trailing down past her shoulder. there’s something effortless about her elegance, something composed and striking that makes you forget where you are for a second too long.

you realize you’ve been staring. she tilts her head slightly, a smile curving just at the corner of her mouth. “are you alright?” you straighten quickly, gloved hands folding instinctively in front of you. “yes, i’m alright. it was my fault, truly. i wasn’t watching where-” “then we’ll both take the blame,” she interrupts kindly. “fair?” “fair.”

she holds your gaze for a moment longer, as if she is about to say something else. but then the music swells behind you both, and someone calls her name, too faint to catch. she dips her head in a graceful, practiced motion. “until next time, miss…” “l/n,” you finish for her. “y/n l/n.” her smile turners knowing. “miss l/n,” she repeats, as if trying it on. “i’ll remember that.” 

and just like that, she disappears into the ballroom, leaving only the soft scent of rose water behind. you stand there, heart unexpectedly quick in your chest, staring after a girl whose name you do not even know. but you want to.

more than anything, in that moment, you want to

you wake later than usual. not by much, just enough for esther to raise an eyebrow as she draws back the curtains. “is something the matter, miss l/n?” she asks softly, settling your tea beside your window seat. “you look sickly this morning.” you shake your head, brushing your fingers along the edge of your sleeve. “only tired.”

that is not a lie. you are tired. but it isn’t the kind of tired sleep fixes. 

all morning, you go through the motions. tea, toast, embroidery, conversation, all of it tinged with a quiet humming beneath your skin. because you have not stopped thinking about her.

the girl in the buttercream gown. the pearl tiara, the curls, the garnet warmth in her voice.

the moment plays on repeat in your mind, over and over, like a memory too soft to touch directly. it had only been a bump of shoulders, a brief exchange of words, polite, even, but something had pulsed beneath it. something that didn't belong in ballrooms or between strangers. you didn't imagine it, you know you didn't. still, you didn't get her name. she vanished into the night as if she had never been there at all. you don't know if she was a guest, a debutante, the daughter of someone significant, or just someone passing through, like a mist.

but she said she’d remember your name.

and you believe her.

by midmorning, your mother summons you to the drawing room. she’s seated with your aunt, sipping a sharp lemon tea and sifting through invitations. you sit as instructed, folding your hands neatly in your lap. your mother speaks in her usual clipped tones. “the warwicks were very pleased with your demeanor last night.” you nod. “lord william asked after you this morning.” you nod, again. “his family is visiting the manor next week. we’ll host them for a luncheon.”

you don’t nod this time. you feel your stomach pull taut, like a thread catching in embroidery. “i see.” your mother peers over her teacup. “you will wear the rose dress.” you murmur, “yes, mother,” though it barely reaches your throat. they go on talking, but the sound fades beneath your heartbeat.

you shouldn’t be thinking of her. you shouldn’t be wondering what she’s doing right now, or whether she lives nearby, or if she remembered the way your name felt in her mouth. and yet, you do.

later that afternoon, you retreat to the solarium with a book you’ve read too many times before. your fingertips trace the gold lettering on the spines as you lean back into the pale cushions by the window. outside, the snow has begun to melt. tiny rivulets of water slide down the glass, casting shadows across your open pages.

you’re not reading, not really. instead, you remember the weight of her gaze. the slight tilt of her head. the way she said your name like it wasn’t just a name, but a question.

“y/n l/n” she had repeated. as though she were testing the sound of it.

your name has never sounded like anything special before. but from her lips…

you close your eyes, breathing in the faint scent of dried lavender. and you wonder what hers might be.

meanwhile, in the hills above roselane, manon bannerman was not supposed to be at that ball. not technically. her cousin beatrice had forged the invitation, or rather, stretched an old acquaintance with the rutledge eldest into something resembling permission. beatrice was always dragging manon into trouble. and manon rarely minded. but something about last night stayed with her.

she wasn’t sure why.

it wasn’t that the girl she bumped into was the most beautiful in the room, though she was certainly lovely. it wasn’t her gown, or her posture, or her dancing. manon couldn’t even remember seeing the girl dance. 

it was the look on her face, like she wasn’t sure she belonged there either. like she was waiting to come undone. 

manon liked people like that.

she’d bumped into you by accident, truly, and expected the usual reaction. a tight smile, a quick apology, a glance away. but you had met her eyes instead. really looked at her. and then you smiled, just faintly. not for show. that smile had stayed with manon through the end of the night and into this morning’s frost. she now stood at the edge of her cousin’s estate garden, breath curling in the air, cloak clasped around her. the pearl tiara was tucked into her coat pocket, too precious to leave out but too absurd to wear again.

“y/n l/n,” she said aloud. just once. the name sat easily on her tongue. she didn’t know if the girl lived in the village, or in the countryside. she didn’t know if she’d ever see her again. but manon wasn’t the sort to leave things to chance.

the next day, a bouquet arrives in the late afternoon, just as you’re stepping down from the stairs.

snowdrops.

a small, quiet bundle. no flourishes. the bouquet is tied together with white ribbon. esther intercepts it, blinking in surprise before handing it to you. “there is no card, miss.” your heart starts hammering before you can even undo the ribbon. but folded between the stems, pressed into the space where a leaf meets lace, is a note. handwritten. swooping, unfamiliar script. you unfold it with fingers that shake.

miss l/n,

there is a little stone path behind the rutledge chapel.

sunday afternoon, if the weather allows.

i owe you a proper apology.

– m. b.

the paper smells faintly of rose. you read it. again, and again.

you have no idea what her full name is, but you do not care. you press the note into your chest. the snowdrops tremble in your hand. for the first time in days, you smile, truly smile

and you think, yes. i’ll go.

the sky is undecided. 

clouds hang low and soft over roselane, not quite grey but not promising sun either. you wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you step from the carriage, boots sinking slightly into the damp soil that lines the edge of the chapel. the driver asks if you would like for him to wait. you shake your head. “if i need return, i'll walk,” you say. “it is not far.” the moment you’re alone, the silence becomes louder. no voices. no carriages. just the faint sound of the rustling of wet branches, the chirp of a single bird too early for spring, and the steady thud of your own heartbeat.

you find the stone path easily. it curves behind the rutledge chapel, just as the note described, narrow, cracked with ivy, flanked by low hedges gone brittle int the winter air. it smells like damp earth and the last of the snow. you’re early. or she’s late. either way, you’re standing there, alone, for nearly ten minutes, long enough for your nerves to turn into doubt.

what if she changed her mind?

what if someone saw the note?

what if this was some sort of sick joke?

you are about to turn away when you hear it. footsteps. slow, measured. you look up, and there she is.

the girl in the buttercream gown, though today she wears a deep forest green cloak, her braids swept loosely behind her shoulders. no tiara, no ballroom gown. but somehow, she still looks… impossibly elegant. like something one pulled from a painting.

“i thought you might not come,” she says, slowing to a stop a few feet from you. you try not to stare. but you fail at doing so. “i nearly didn’t,” you admit. “but i…” you pause. “i wanted to.” a beat passes. she smiles. it is smaller than last time. softer. “i hoped you would.”

you don't know what to do with your hands. you clasp them in front of you. “you never told me your name.”

“manon. manon bannerman,” she says easily. “my cousin beatrice pulled me to that ball. said i looked too serious. she forced me into the gown, the tiara was not my idea…” you blink. “you looked beautiful.” the words slip out before you can catch them. they hang in the air, suspended. manon does not flinch. “so did you.”

your breath catches. there’s a pause, not quite uncomfortable, but thick with something else. something waiting. you speak again because the silence feels like a thread you’re scared to pull. “you sent snowdrops” manon shrugs gently, her hands tucked into the folds of her cloak. “they grow along the road to my cousin’s estate. first flowers i saw this week. i thought they were fitting.”

“they are.” another pause. she tilts her head at you. “do you often flee the ballroom mid dance?” you glance away, just a little. “not often. but often enough…” “that makes two of us.”

something about that cracks the air between you. you both laugh, and it feels real. the kind that slips past your ribs and blooms in your lungs. manon takes a step closer, just enough that you can smell the faintest trace of rose water. “i hope this isn’t improper,"she says after a moment. “meeting like this. but i didn’t know how else to see you again.” you swallow. “i don’t mind” she looks at you like shes trying the memorize something. “you seemed… different. that night.” you nod, slowly. “so did you.” silence again. but this one doesn’t need to be filled. not right away.

the clouds part just slightly, letting a faint shaft of light spill across the stones. you glance down, then back at her. “what happens now?” manon’s voice is quiet. “that depends. would you like to see me again?” you are almost afraid to answer, but you do.

“yes.” her smile this time is wider. something flickers behind her eyes. relief, maybe. or hope. “then you will.” 

and somehow, you knew she means it.

you see her again the following sunday.

and the sunday after that.

always at the same place. always behind the rutledge chapel, tucked away where ivy climbs the stone and dead garden beds lie waiting beneath frost. the path is narrow, half forgotten, and you tread it with your heart in your throat each time, though you wouldn’t know it by the way you walk. you keep your back straight. you don’t look over your shoulder. you’ve learned to move like a secret.

sometimes she is already waiting, one boot balanced on the edge of the stone bench, arms crossed, expression unreadable until she sees you. then she smiles. and something in your chest settles.

today, you sit beside her on the bench instead of standing across from her. the silence is not uncomfortable anymore. it has grown into something companionable, even familiar. you hand her a small square of paper wrapped cake you saved from your morning tea. she raises a brow. “smuggling, y/n?” “i told them it was for the birds.”

she laughs, a real one this time. not sharp, not guarded. her mouth softens as she takes the square from you and peels back the paper slowly. you don’t watch her eat. not directly that is. but you feel her beside you, the way her shoulder dips when she leans forward, the way her boot taps faintly against the stone when she chews. you notice too much now. it’s becoming a habit.

“what else do you smuggle?” she asks. you pretend to consider it. “pride, opinions, spoons.” “spoons?” “i like to keep them.” she turns her head fully towards you, incredulous. “you steal spoons?” 

“i rescue them,” you say, straight faced. “from terrible china sets.”

manon blinks once, then tips her head back and lets out a laugh that shakes her whole frame. you feel it vibrate through the stone beneath you. “i think i’m frightened of you,” she says once the laughter subsides, her voice lower now. “you don’t act like anyone i’ve ever met.” you smile without looking at her. “neither do you.” 

another pause. this one feels different. like both of you just stepped slightly closer to something you have yet to name. she shifts beside you, and her arm brushes yours. you don’t pull away. she doesn’t either. “what did you want to be?” she asks suddenly. “before they told you what you had to be?” the question steals your breath for a moment. you glance over. her expression isn’t teasing now. it’s open. sincere. 

you think about the question for a little. “i wanted to be a cartographer,” you admit. “i used to draw maps of places i’d never seen. i’d label them with made up names. i liked the idea of getting lost on purpose.” she watches you with something unreadable in her eyes. “i can’t imagine you being lost,” she says after a beat. “you always look like you know exactly what you’re doing.” you scoff. “that’s the trick, isn’t it?” you both fall silent again. but the silence crackles. not with absence, but with everything unsaid, hanging just beneath your tongues. 

you’re both leaning back now, shoulders pressed just enough to feel the shape of each other. the sun is low, casting a pale gold light across the crumbling wall in front of you. neither of you moves. neither of you says the things you’re thinking. but your fingers twitch faintly in your lap. and you feel hers do the same.

no touching, not yet. but close enough that the nearness speaks for you. like dusk leaning towards dawn, never quite touching. 

the next few meetings are quiet. careful.

you sit beside her with a polite distance between you, hands tucked into your skirts, lips pressed into a ladylike line. you speak of safe things. the texture of the snow, the sound of the sparrows, the way candlelight flickers differently on rainy evenings. but she always finds the little things between your words.

“you hate the opera,” she says once, after you mention an upcoming evening in london. you glance at her in surprise. “how could you possibly know that?” “you wrinkle your nose when you say it.” you blink. “i do not.” “you do.” she grins. “just barely.”

another time, she brings a book of poetry, german, though she offers to translate. you sit with her for over an hour as she reads from the worn pages, voice low and steady. you barely remember what the verses were about. you can only remember the way she sounded reading them. the way your shoulder brushed hers each time you leaned in to see the lines for yourself.

she bears the scent of rosewater and winter’s slow retreat, as though spring itself had taken form beside you.

you don’t ask about her family. and she doesn’t ask about yours. this unspoken rule binds you just as tightly as your gloved hands.

you learn how to lie.

not the bold, scandalous sort. just the kind that easily slips from your mouth.

“i’m taking a walk.”

“i need some air.”

“i have a headache.”

it becomes routine. esther helps you lace your boots without question. the driver is told not to wait. you make sure to return before the warmth in your face betrays you. your mother remarks on your “cheeks coming back.” you nod and say nothing.

she thinks you’re beginning to blossom, finally behaving like a girl ready to marry.

you want to scream. instead, you meet manon in the garden.

it’s colder. the frost has turned the edges of the stone bench white, and manon brings a blanket to share. you sit closer this time. not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of her.

you talk about everything and nothing. she tells you she once swam in the seine in the middle of the night. that she broke her cousin’s window sneaking back in. that she hates oranges and has a scar on her knee from falling out of a tree as a little girl. 

you don’t know why she tells you these things. but you remember every word. “do you always break rules?” you ask quietly, picking at a thread in your gloves. manon glances sideways. “only the ones that deserve it.” you smile.

you don’t ask what rules she thinks this breaks. neither of you says it out loud.

the next meeting, it rains.

not heavy, but steady enough to soak the shoulders of your cloak and weigh down the ribbon on your bonnet. you nearly turn back. but you’ve never wanted to see her more. she’s already there when you arrive, standing beneath the stone arch that juts out beside the chapel wall.

“you’re soaked,” she says, taking you in with a sigh and a half smile. “you should’ve waited for better weather.” “you came,” you say, stepping under the arch. your fingers are numb. your breath clouds between you. “i always do.”

there’s water droplets on her lashes. a curl stuck to her cheek. you reach up before you can stop yourself, just to move it aside. your glove brushes her skin. she catches your hand in hers.

neither of you moves.

you forget how to breathe.

“i-” you start, but you don’t know what you meant to say. that you’re sorry? that you’re afraid? instead, you whisper, “i think about you more than i should.” manon is quiet. but she doesn't let go. she steps forward just enough that her forehead almost touches yours.

“i haven’t stopped thinking about you since the ball.” and then she kisses you.

you feel it everywhere. like snow melting in your chest, like a fire that’s been waiting for someone to strike it. it isn’t rushed. it isn’t desperate. it’s reverent. 

her hand slides to the side of your neck. yours finds her waist. you lean in at the same time, like you’ve both been leaning your whole lives, just waiting for this moment to finally tip. when she pulls away, her lips are pink and parted. her eyes are still closed. you don’t say a word.

you don’t have to.

you return home with wind tossed hair and a heart still thudding in your chest. everything feels louder. brighter. the world has shifted a fraction on its axis and only uou seem to notice.

esther meets you in the front hall with your gloves already unbuttoned. she doesn’t speak at first, only tilts her head slightly as she helps you slip them off, her eyes narrowing at the colour in your cheeks. “you look,” she begins carefully, “as though you’ve just remembered something rather sweet.” you blink. “do i?” 

“mhm,” she hums, folding your gloves with unnecessary precision. “and your fair is windswept. did you go riding?” “no,” you say quickly. “i walked.”

“in the cold?”

“i needed air.”

esther raises a brow but says nothing more. only presses her lips together in that knowing way of hers.

later, upstairs, you stare at yourself in the looking glass for far too long. you trace your lips with the tip of your finger. they still tingle. you still feel her there, in the quiet places of your skin, in the hollow of your throat where her breath once touched.

you don’t write about it. you don’t say it out loud. but when you sit at your desk, you pull out the pressed snowdrops manon sent weeks ago and smooth them carefully between your palms, like a prayer.

the next morning, a fresh bundle arrives.

snowdrops again. tied neatly with dark green silk and no note. just as before. just as always. but this time, the silk matches the ribbon manon had worn in her braid the day before. 

you keep them on your windowsill. esther notices them too. of course she does. she lingers by them when tidying the room, her fingers brushing lightly over the petals. she says nothing. but you think you see her smile, just faintly, as she turns away.

the days that follow feel longer.

you catch yourself drifting during conversation, stirring tea you do not drink, staring out the window like something waits for you beyond the hedgerow. and it does. she does. you nearly trip over your hem in the front hall and laugh aloud, which earns you a startled look from your mother. “you seem well,” she says, tilting her head at you. “i am,” you reply, perhaps too quickly. “i feel-”

but you stop yourself. because how do you describe this? the fire in your chest? the press of her hand behind your neck? the soft, sudden way she kissed you again as if she couldn’t help it? no. you only nod.

sunday feels an eternity away. you count the days by how often you think of her.

the way she leaned in.

the way her eyes flicked to your mouth.

the way her lips tasted like something holy and forbidden.

you lie in bed and recall the bench. her laughter. her hand in your hair.

you ache.

and when the sun rises on sunday, you are already awake. already waiting.

already wondering what she will say when she sees you again. whether she’s thought of nothing else, too.

manon doesn’t speak to anyone when she returns home. she doesn’t need to.

not even dinah, the maid who’s known her since childhood, asks a thing as she hangs up manon’s coat and places her gloves near the fire. there’s something about manon’s face that evening. too calm to be normal, too distant to be troubled. that warns against it. she goes straight to her room and closes the door gently.

not a slam.

a hush.

her hands are still cold when she unlaces her boots. her fingers fumble at first, and she swears under her breath, though the words come out softer than usual. everything about her is softer.

her spine is not so straight. her breath, not so shallow.

she lights the candle on her desk with shaking hands. then, she just stands there. not pacing. not sitting. only standing, as though her body hasn’t caught up with the memory of being touched. not in passing, not in pretence, but truly.

the kiss replays behind her eyes with excruciating clarity. not the surprise of it, but the inevitability. she remembers how it felt to lean in. the moment when tension gave way to certainty. the first, searing touch of your mouth against hers. not cautious, not demure. hungry.

she swallows hard. her mouth still warm. she lowers herself slowly into the chair at her writing desk, like she's afraid the shatter the moment by moving too quickly. then she reaches for a page. but she doesn’t write yet.

her fingers tremble. there’s a part of her that wants to go back to the chapel. right now. barefoot if she must. just to see you again. just to look at you. she doesn’t. instead, she unties the green ribbon from her braids and winds it slowly around her fingers. the same one she used for the snowdrops. the same one she left, on purpose.

she imagines you noticing.

she lets herself imagine you smiling.

she writes. she doesn't know what she’s writing, only that it comes quickly and spills out like a breath. no title. no plan. just the ache of memory translated into ink. she writes what she remembers.

how you laughed.

how her fingers curled into the collar of your coat.

how you kissed like you’ve done it before in another life.

how you kissed her back as though you knew it would have to last you forever. 

she doesn’t reread what she’s written. not yet. she simply folds the paper, presses it between the pages of a closed book, and tucks the book into the bottom drawer of her writing desk.

out of sight. but not forgotten.

that night, manon sleeps with her fingers curled under her pillow. as if she's still holding something delicate. as if she's still holding you. and when she dreams, she dreams of the chapel.

and of a girl in gloves, with wind in her hair, walking towards her like she belonged to her.

manon had arrived early, again.

she didn’t mean to. she never means to. but she always does.

there’s something about the silence before you appear that steadies her, though she would never admit it aloud. she’s seated already, one boot perched on the edge of the stone bench, gloved hands tucked in her lap, spine straight against the creeping ivy. but her eyes flick towards the bend of the path far too often. her breath fogs the cold air in slow, measured exhales. she’s been thinking all week. too much, too often. and not always wisely.

she shouldn’t have kissed her. not there, not then. but god, she couldn’t not kiss her.

the moment had begged for it.

and you had begged in silence too, with your eyes, with the tilt of your mouth, with the breath you held like a secret between you both. and manon had answered.

now, every moment since has ached with the echo of it. not regret. never regret... just longing.

she turns her face slightly to the sun, letting it wash over her cheekbones. it’s still cold, but not the bitter sort. the kind that feels like it’s preparing to leave. just like the frost clinging to the corners of the garden wall. and then, she hears footsteps. not loud. measured, familiar.

she doesn’t stand, but her chest tightens with something closer to relief. she crosses her legs at the ankle and tries to look unaffected. she’s never been very good at it where you are concerned. 

–

you feel it before you see her again. the shift in the air, the stir beneath your skin.

all week you’ve moved through your days like a dreamer, your mind slipping again and again to the chapel, to the way her lips felt against yours, to the warmth of her hands when they cupped your jaw as if holding something precious. you’ve memorized the moment in silence. replayed it behind closed eyes. now, the ache of wanting has softened into something sweeter. not frantic, not wild, but steady.

you don't know what you’ll say when you see her again. only that you must.

the garden behind the chapel is thawing. winter is still thick in the air, but the stone bench has warmed just enough to sit on without shivering, and the sunlight lingers longer on your sleeves. there are tiny white flowers beginning to push through the earth beside your boots.

manon is already there when you arrive, she always is.

you slide onto the bench beside her and don’t speak right away, you just breathe in the stillness. she doesn’t speak either. she only shifts slightly, enough to let your shoulder brush hers.

then, slowly, your head finds its way to rest on her shoulder. it feels like coming home. she hums once, low in her throat, and lifts your hand from your lap gently. she doesn’t take off your glove. she just plays with the tips of your fingers. tugging lightly at the seams, tracing the curve of your knuckle with her thumb.

it is thoughtless, intimate. you’re not even sure she notices she’s doing it.

“what did you do today?” you murmur. “read,” she says. “stared out the window for a century. nearly fell asleep before tea.” you smile against the fabric of her sleeve. “so the usual, then.” she nods. “and i wrote.” that perks your head up just slightly. “wrote?” she glances at you. “poetry.” you blink. “you write poetry?”

“when i’m bored,” she says. “when it’s raining, when my thoughts are louder than the house.” you sit up a little straighter now. “will you read me one?” “no.” you frown. “why not?”

“because they’re mine.”

“that’s unfair.”

“it is completely fair.”

you turn on the bench to face her. “you can’t just say you write poetry and then not share it.” “i can. i just did.” you raise an eyebrow. “manon.” “y/n,” she says mockingly. you gasp. “you are proud of them, aren't you? you just want me to beg.” 

“i wouldn’t mind it,” she says, smiling now. you swat at her shoulder, but her laughter is warm, unguarded. “please?” you try again. “just one.” “no.” 

“one line?”

“absolutely not.” you pout. “i won’t stop asking.”

“i know.”

you scoot closer. “you’re really not going to let me see?” she leans back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes directly. “not even a verse?” you whisper. the air changes. because your faces are too close now.

you both know it.

her smile falters just slightly, like her breath caught without warning. you blink once. and then you’re both still.

her eyes flick down to your mouth. yours do the same. 

neither of you moves. neither of you looks away.

the space between you is so small it might not even exist. and then it happens.

the kiss is sudden, but not surprising. like you both knew this exact moment was coming. like you were both waiting for it. its not cautious this time. it doesn’t ask permission. it’s full and deep and hungry, the way silence turns into thunder when it finally breaks. her hands are in your hair. yours are on her collar, pulling her in. her mouth opens slightly and you taste something like longing, like months of what ifs finally being answered by touch. you shift onto your knees on the bench, needing to be closer, and she pulls you in deeper. your nose bumps hers and she doesn’t care. she kisses you harder.

when she finally pulls away, just barely, her eyes are glassy. her lips are flushed. your chest rises and falls like you’ve run a mile. you stare at each other. then you kiss her again. slower this time.

like thank you

like i missed this before it ever happened.

like stay.

you part ways before the sky darkens, fingers brushing one last time like a secret handshake. neither of you speaks much. there's no need. but when manon returns home that night, she doesn’t go to the parlour. she doesn’t light the fire. she goes straight to her room, sits at her small desk, and pulls out a clean sheet of paper.

her pen hovers for a moment, then she writes. she doesn't date it, doesn’t yet title it either. she just writes. her handwriting is sharper than usual, more fluid. her ink runs low halfway through and she refills it without stopping. she doesn’t read it back, she doesn’t feel like she needs to. and when she finishes, she folds that page and slips it into the drawer beneath her mirror.

she doesn't label it, yet. 

but she knows who it’s about.

your mother calls you into her private sitting room.

she’s holding a letter sealed with dark blue wax. her expression is smooth and bright in a way that makes your stomach twist. “there’s been an offer,” she says. your pulse slows. your breath forgets how to move.

“from lord william warwick.” of course. “he’s fond of you,” she continues, like she's reading a script. “his family has land in kent. your father has agreed. the announcement will be made at the grantham’s gathering next month. he’ll begin visiting formally by the end of the week.” 

you say nothing. she studies you. “you should be pleased.” you nod. because what else is there to do?

that sunday, you don’t go.

you sit in your window seat all morning, watching snowflakes melt against the pane, hands clenched in your lap. you imagine her waiting.

you imagine her turning around slowly when she realizes you’re not coming. your stomach aches. 

you want to scream.

you want to run.

but you sit still. because this is what is expected of you.

the next morning, you find something on your windowsill. a snowdrop.

fresh. white. still went from dew.

no ribbon this time. no hidden note. just the flower. your breath catches.

she’s never sent one on a monday before. never outside the quiet rhythm of your sunday's. 

which means…she’s asking. now. and something in your chest tightens like a pulled thread. so you go.

you run, this time. boots splashing through puddles, skirt soaked at the hem, shawl thrown over your shoulder in haste. the wind cuts your cheeks, but you don’t feel it. not really. you’re too full of something frantic, something broken wide. the garden is empty when you arrive, but only for a moment. 

she’s there. her hair is windblown. her cloak unfastened, caught on one shoulder. she stands as if she’s been waiting on the edge of something. uncertain if she’ll leap or turn away. and when she sees you, something in her breaks open.

you don't speak. neither of you do. you walk towards her like the ground might vanish beneath your feet, and she meets you halfway before she even knows she’s moving. the ache between you is thick, swollen with everything unsaid. your breath catches. you try to speak, but no words come.

“i-” you begin, but it crumbles in your throat, and your voice starts to shake. “please. kiss me.”

her eyes soften, and then flood with something else entirely. 

grief

love

knowing

and before you can say anything else, her hands are in your hair, and her mouth crashes into yours.

it is not soft.

it is not gentle.

but it is everything.

it is months of longing wrapped into seconds. it is all the letters unwritten, all the glances held for too long. it is the pain of stolen time and the joy of having found each other at all. she kisses you like she’s trying to learn the shape of your soul. her hands shake at your jawline, but her mouth is certain, hungry, reverent. her lips move with a rhythm that borders on desperate, gasping between each breath like she doesn’t know when she’ll be allowed another.

you kiss her back. harder. you pour everything into it. every wish you whispered into your pillow, every dream you never thought you’d be brave enough to live. you fist your hands in her cloak, press your body against hers like you’re trying to crawl inside the moment, to never leave it.

the world disappears. the cold, the chapel, the fear. all gone. it’s just her. her breath, her warmth, her trembling mouth.

you both begin to slow. 

not because the kiss runs out, but because you do. because the ache beneath it catches up to you. 

she parts from you only barely, just enough to breathe. but her hands don’t fall away. her nose brushes yours, and her breath ghosts across your lips like a promise and a farewell all at once.

your foreheads touch. you stay like that, suspended, motionless. as if moving might break something fragile between you. her thumb strokes the corner of your mouth once, gently, as though memorizing you. neither of you speak, there is nothing to say that would not break you both.

you sit beside her. you don’t explain. you don’t say what your mother told you or what the date of the letter said or how many days are left before you wear white for a man you do not love.

she doesn’t ask. she just reaches for your hand, and you let her hold it. because you don’t know how to say goodbye yet. but you can already feel it coming. it hangs between your joint palms like fog, like dusk, like the very last line of a poem neither of you is brave enough to write.

when you return home, your mother is already waiting in the drawing room, a half embroidered handkerchief lying folded in her lap. “ah,” she says, setting her needle aside. “there you are. i’ve something to tell you.” you feel your spine tighten, just a little. she doesn’t smile. not exactly. but there is something in her eyes, a hopeful flicker, the sort you’ve come to recognize. that makes your stomach twist. “lord william has written,” she says. “he’s asked to call on you tomorrow. for tea.” you blink. “tomorrow?” “yes,” she says. “he’s eager to get to know you further. i think it’s quite promising, don’t you?” you nod because you are meant to. you smile because it’s expected. but your chest feels hollow, windblown.

you wear pale blue.

your mother says it suits your complexion and ties a ribbon into your hair herself. you sit straight during tea, your gloves folded in your lap.

the tea is bohae. fragrant. slightly over-steeped. you try not to think of how manon would wrinkle her nose at the bitterness.

you and lord william sit across from one another in the small parlour. the fire crackles softly behind you, and the light is pale gold through the lace curtains. too soft to banish the ache in your chest.

he is polite, and warm. a gentleman.

he asks after your favourite novels, your preferred composers. you mention mozart, though you must admit, you have a soft spot for the stormier pieces of beethoven.

he mentioned he likes charlotte smith, answering his own question. “i find her sonnets rather moving,” he says, sipping his tea. “her imagery, the sea, the ruins. i suppose i’ve always liked a certain kind of sorrow.” your fingers go still on the teacup’s handle.

charlotte smith.

you blink. and suddenly, you’re not in the parlour anymore. you’re back behind the chapel again.

the stone bench is cold, but manon is warm beside you. her cloak is wrapped around both of your shoulders, and the fabric brushes your cheek every time you shift, soft and worn and smelling faintly of cedar and smoke. your gloves are still damp from where you’d run through melting snow to meet her, skirt muddied at the hem, breath still catching in your throat. not from exertion, but from the ache of anticipation you can no longer name.

the book rests in her lap, spine softened by years, corner frayed. she reads slowly, her voice low and deliberate, like she’s not just reciting charlotte smith, but conjuring her. each syllable is touched with care. she doesn’t look at you as she reads, but you feel her attention all at the same time. stretched like thread between your shoulder and hers.

“...yet still I sigh to think how soon that power, 

shall also vanish like the morning dew…”

you stop hearing words. not because her voice isn’t beautiful, it is, but because you cannot stop looking at her. the curve of her jaw. the flutter of her lashes. the way the light catches at her temple where the wind has undone a few unbraided curls. you want to memorize her, not the shape of her, but the feeling. 

there is a tenderness in your chest so large it aches. you’ve never loved anyone before. not like this, not with a devotion that makes your fingers twitch and your throat tighten. but here it is. clear as breath. terrifying as fire. you shift slightly, your head rests more fully against her shoulder.

the scent of her is everywhere now. her cloak, her skin, her hair. and it makes you feel as though you’re dissolving. you close your eyes for a moment, breathing her in. and then, you look up.

she’s still reading. eyes flicking over the page, but there’s a softness at her mouth. like she knows. like she feels it too.

you stare at her, helpless to stop yourself. there’s a look in your eyes that would give you away if anyone else were there to see it. but it’s just you, just her, and the garden. and the frost, soft grass. she pauses mid-line, sensing your gaze. she looks down at you.

“what?” she murmurs, a smile just barely forming. you shake your head. you can’t say it. you don't know how to put it into words, that you think you might never recover from this, from her. from the way she looks at you like you’re something to be remembered. so you kiss her. softly, reverently, but with intention.

she inhales sharply. surprised, but not unwelcoming, and you feel her smile against your mouth a heartbeat later. her hand lifts, grazing your cheek, your neck, the edge of your jaw. she kisses you back, fuller now, and the warmth of her seeps into you like sunlight after snow. you think you could cry from the way it feels.

when you part, she doesn’t go far. her nose bumps yours, her breath is still mingled with yours. her eyes, bright and amused, search your face like she’s trying to memorize it in return. “you’re smiling,” she says softly. you drop your forehead to her shoulder, heart thudding wild and loose in your chest. “you make it difficult to not.” she lets out a sound, half a laugh, half a sigh, and folds her arms around you, pulling you in until your ribs are pressed to hers and your legs are tangled awkwardly beneath the cloak. and you both sit other, grinning like fools into each other’s hair. unable to say it, unable not to feel it.

the chapel bell tolls somewhere in the distance. neither of you moves, not yet. not while the world still lets you be hers.

“miss y/n?”

lord william’s voice calling you, brings you back. you blink. realign. swallow. 

“i- i apologise,” you say, smoothing your skirt. “my thoughts wandered.” he smiles, unfazed. “no need to apologise. it’s a poet’s trick, i think. pulling us away like that.” you nod, and smile faintly. 

but your hands twinge again.

your chest is full of her laughter.

and no matter how kind lord william is, no matter how gentle, he will never smell like rosewater and storms.

you don’t speak of the engagement, not at first.

but you keep meeting her anyway. behind the chapel, along the half frozen garden paths, sometimes by the edge of the woods if the weather allows. the silence between you is softer now, like everything has gone quiet so you can hear your hearts more clearly. but manon knows.

she knew the moment she saw your face that morning. she knows every time your hands tremble before they reach for hers. still, she doesn’t ask, not directly. instead, she walks beside you in silence and presses her shoulder to yours when you sit. she steals glances when she thinks you aren’t looking. she laces your fingers with hers beneath the folds of your shawl as if pretending you are just two girls with nothing to fear.

you let her, because you don’t know how to say the words out loud. and you don’t know how to let her go.

some days are quiet. she reads to you, her voice curling around phrases from old books that smell like candle smoke and pressed flowers. you lean against her arm and close your eyes.

other days are louder.

like when you kiss her against the garden wall, hands tangled in her coat, breath hitching as the snow begins to fall around you. she lifts your chin with gloved fingers like you’re something fragile and sacred. you kiss her like you’re drowning. she kisses you like she doesn’t care who’s watching.

even when no one is.

especially when no one is.

but the world is catching up.

the warwick family sends a package of silk samples. your mother calls them “generous” and says she prefers the ivory. 

there are whispers in the drawing room about your “good match.” lord william begins to send letters. short, gentlemanly, appropriate. you don’t respond. your mother replies on your behalf.

manon never asks what they say. she only holds you a little longer when you arrive.

one afternoon, as you sit beneath the bare arbor behind the chapel, she finally speaks. her voice is soft, but it cuts straight through you. “when?” you don’t pretend not to understand. “the announcement is next week.” she nods. her jaw is tense.

you reach for her hand, but she draws it back into her lap. “you said you didn’t want to marry,” she murmurs. “ever.” “i don’t.”

“then why?”  “because i have to.” 

that hangs in the air like a noose. she stares ahead at the crumbling brick wall in front of you, blinking slowly. “you’re not a prisoner.” you almost laugh. but it catches in your throat.

“aren’t i?”

manon looks at you. really looks at you. your eyes sting. “i would run,” you say quietly. “if i could. i would run.” manon’s voice is nothing more than breath. “then let me take you.” the ache in your chest becomes unbearable. you shake your head. “it would not work.” 

“you do not know that.” “but i do.”

she doesn’t argue, not really. she just closes her eyes for a moment. when she opens them, there’s something colder behind them. like she is already building a wall to keep herself from shattering.

you hate that you’re the one putting the first crack in it.

you don’t say ‘i love you’

but you think it, louder and louder with every step you take away from her that afternoon. and the next time you see her, it will be for the last time. you both know it. neither of you says it. not yet.

you don’t tell anyone where you’re going. you leave a note on your vanity, vague and neat, just in case someone goes looking.

but no on will.

they trust you to be proper, to be good, to be theirs. 

they don’t know what you’re choosing instead. 

the sun has returned after days of grey, hanging low and cold above the hills, but it feels like a gift. the frost on the windows melted before morning, and the air carries a stillness that makes your breath catch as you step through the chapel gate. she’s already there, waiting.

manon stands just off the path, gloved hands folded in front of her, eyes steady and unreadable. she doesn’t smile when she sees you, but she doesn’t look away.

you don't speak. you just walk to her, and she holds her arm out silently. you take it and you both begin to walk. away from the chapel, away from the garden. up past the hedges and into the edge of the trees.

she doesn’t ask how long you can stay, you don’t ask what time it is. 

it doesn’t matter.

none of it matters today.

you walk until your boots are soaked and your cheeks sting with wind. you follow the path where the trees part. tall, bare limbed, racing out like they’re trying to hold you both still, trying to keep you from falling forward into what comes next. the sun filters through in thin gold slivers, brushing your skirts, your collarbone, the side of her face. 

you find a clearing. small, secluded, untouched. like it’s waited centuries for this. 

there’s an old stone bench in the center, half swallowed by moss. she sits first, then pats the space beside her. you sit in the empty space. and for a long time, there’s nothing but the sound of wind in the trees and the slow rhythm of your lungs trying to breathe.

her voice, when it comes, is soft. “will you remember this?” you turn to her, barely holding it together. “every part.” she nods, but her throat works like she’s swallowing glass. 

she’s trying not to cry. so are you.

you reach for her hand, this time she lets you take it. you slip your glove off first.

skin against skin.

it feels warmer than it should. like safety. like something forbidden and real.

“i used to think,” she says after a long silence, “that i wasn’t made for this kind of thing.” “what kind of thing?” her fingers curl tighter around yours. “feeling. all of it. i thought i’d be fine without it.” “and now?” manon turns to you fully. her face is open. unshielded.

“now i think i’m ruined.”

you don’t answer with words.

you kiss her, and it’s not like before. it’s not desperate, not hurried. it’s reverent, heartbreaking. like a promise and goodbye pressed into one another.

you kiss her with the ache of every night you’ve spent dreaming of her, and every morning you’ve woken up pretending you haven’t. she kisses you like she’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. like it might be the last time she ever feels it. 

and it might be.

your hands slide up to her collar, trembling as you clutch the folds of her coat, pulling her closer. her breath catches. audible, fragile, and her fingers move to your waist. tentative at first, then firmer, like she's trying to memorize the curve of your body by feel alone.

she leans into you, slow and sure, until there’s no space left to give. her other hand finds your hair, and you feel the way she gathers it, gentle and slow, guiding your face as her lips deepen against yours. your breath stutters when she shifts, aligning her mouth more fully over yours, and you part your lips instinctively. the kiss grows, just slightly, hungrier. like neither of you meant for it to. like you both forgot where you are, what time it is, what the end if this will mean. you gasp softly into her mouth when her thumb brushes just beneath your ribs.

and still, you keep kissing her. like you want to disappear into her. like you would rather burn here, in this moment, than go on living without it.

she draws back, barely, only to kiss the corner of your mouth. then the other. then the hollow beneath your cheekbone. her mouth is warm. devotional. as if she’s trying to bless every part of your face she’ll never get to see grow older. when her lips finally return to yours, you exhale a soft, broken sound. your hands find the edge of her jaw, skin to skin, and you tilt her towards you. you kiss her slower now. like you’re lingering on each second. like this is something to be grieved before it’s even over. and she lets you.

she lets you have every second.

until you both go still. forehead to forehead. eyes closed. lips parted. breathing, like it hurts to stop.

her voice is hoarse, like it’s coming from somewhere deep and bruised. “i wish-” she begins, but you cut her off. “i know.” because you do.

of course you do.

you lie with her on frostbitten grass for the rest of the afternoon. tangled in her coat, her hand in your hair, your face is pressed into the hollow of her neck. her heart beats slow and steady against your cheek, and you wish you could be kept there, where everything still feels like yours.

no one speaks. 

you both listen to the sky, and pretend it’s not getting darker. pretending the night won’t end. pretending tomorrow isn’t already written.

by the time you return home, dusk has nearly gone. the wind has lost its sharpness.

your mother is waiting in the drawing room. she rises as you enter, hands clasped like she’s already rehearsed what to say. she doesn't scold. she only says, “the tailor will be here early in the morning. lord warwick expects you to stand with him at the announcement.” you nod.

you don't trust your voice.

you don't meet her eyes.

you walk past her without a word and head up the stairs, down the corridor, fingers curling into your skirts just to feel something solid. when your bedroom door closes behind you, the world softens. but it doesn't relent. not really.

you sink to the edge of the window seat, still dressed in the cloak she held you in. her scent clings to it.

rosewater.

cold air.

her.

you press your cheek to the sill, the glass is cold. you stay like that for a long while, unmoving. still. the kind of stillness that only comes when something is breaking

your eyes blur, but you don’t cry. you just feel hollow. like something has been scooped out of you.

the snowdrop is still in your pocket.

you pull it out carefully, finger trembling as you cradle it in your palm. its petals are slightly bruised now, the edges curing. it doesn’t look like how it did that morning.

you wish you didn’t understand that metaphor.

you press your cheek to the sill. the glass is cold, but your skin is colder. for a moment, you think you can hold it together. that maybe if you stay very still, if you breathe evenly, the pain will pass over you like weather.

it doesn’t.

the tears come fast and without warning. and this time, they are not quiet.

they come like a break. like something shattering inside your chest with no hope of repair. you lurch forward, hands gripping the edge of the window as if it might keep you from collapsing entirely. a sob claws its way up your throat, and when it leaves you, it sounds like grief. like a name you’re afraid to speak aloud.

manon.

you cry harder. 

your whole body trembles, heaves with it. it’s not delicate. it’s not pretty. its ugly, raw, and real. you gasp between sobs, like you’re drowning above water. you try to breathe, but it won’t come out right. you curl in on yourself, forehead pressed to your knees now, hair falling around your face like a curtain. you’re shaking so violently it rattles your bones. the sleeves of her cloak are still wrapped around you, and you claw at them like it might bring her back. like if you hold tight enough, you won’t have to let her go.

but she’s not here.

and no one is coming to save you from what’s already been decided.

you cry until your throat aches. until your mouth tastes like salt and sorrow. until the sobs grow hoarse and uneven and so deep that they no longer sound human. 

that’s when the door creaks open.

esther steps in slowly. her footsteps falter when she sees you, crumpled at the window like something broken.

“y/n…” your name leaves her lips like a prayer, or a curse. she rushes to you and kneels beside you without hesitation. you try to say something, anything, but your voice is gone. all that comes out is a noise, guttural and sharp and helpless. and when she takes you in her arms, you collapse fully. wrecked. 

you clutch at her gown like a child, sobbing into her chest, gasping like your heart is breaking because it is. it is, and there’s nothing to be done. “i can’t-” you choke out. “i cant- i can’t-” she hushes you, her hands stroking your hair. “breathe, my darling. i’ve got you. i’ve got you.” you want to tell her about the forest, the kiss, the promises too dangerous to be named. instead, you just whisper, “i don’t want to marry him.”

it breaks something in the air.

and still, esther doesn’t flinch. she moves closer and wraps her arms around you. she holds you the way no one else has held you since you were a child. like she means to keep you whole. but she can’t fix it.

no one can.

and so you sob. for the girl who kissed you like a promise, for the chapel garden that won’t bloom again, for the life that could’ve been.

and for the ache you know you’ll carry into every morning that comes after. 

the dress is ivory.

not the one you would’ve chosen. 

it’s stitched with lace that scratches the inside of your elbows, and the satin gloves you wear are too tight around your knuckles. you want to rip them off. you want to scream. you want to run.

you smile instead. that’s what’s needed. 

the engagement announcement is held in the warwick family’s winter garden, where brittle roses still cling to leafless vines and the floor is marble that chills straight through your slippers.

lord william stands beside you like the world already belongs to him.

you don’t dislike him, that’s the worst part.

he is kind, polite, tall enough to be admired, quiet enough not to be arrogant. his hand at your waist is steady. gentle. rehearsed.

he looks at you like you are already his wife. and you smile, because you know how to.

everyone claps when your names are spoken together. champagne is poured, and toasts are made. someone calls it a “perfect match.”  you hear your mother laughing behind her fan. you taste bile in your throat and force it down with a sip of lemon tea.

your fingers are cold.

you wonder if manon knows. you wonder if she felt it the moment the words were said aloud.

you think ‘she must have. of course she did. of course she did.’

you don’t see her again. not for days

not until the carriage is waiting at the foot of the drive, your trunk loaded, your handmaids finishing their farewells. you’re leaving for the warwick estate in kent. you’ll live there now.

you’ll be mrs. y/n warwick.

your title tastes like someone else's name.

you slip away just before dusk, waiting past the hedges behind the garden as if you’re just in need of air. no one follows. 

you find your way to the chapel. you round the path behind it one last time, knowing, hoping, she’ll be there.

and she is.

standing with her hands in the pockets of her coat, her curls wind blown, her cheeks flushed like she ran to get here.

she already knows, and somehow, she still came.

she looks at you like it hurts just to breathe. 

“i waited,” she says softly. “i thought maybe you wouldn’t go.” you walk to her.

step by step.

your throat is so tight you can barely speak. “i wanted to stay.” she swallows. her voice breaks. “then why didn’t you?” you shake your head. “because i am a daughter. and a duty. and a wife before i am a person.” she steps closer.

“you were mine before you were anything else,” she whispers. 

you let the words hit you full in the chest. she reaches up, her hand shaking, and touches your cheek like it’s already a memory. her voice barely holds. “i would’ve given you everything.” you take her wrist and press your face into her palm.

“you already did.”

and then she kisses you. it's the kind of kiss that holds weight. that says ‘i’m angry you’re leaving and i love you anyway.’ that says ‘i hate that we live in a world that would do this to us.’ that says ‘if i could set fire to this future, i would.’

her mouth moves like she’s trying to brand it into memory. like if she kisses you deeply enough, she’ll taste you for the rest of her life. you match her. breathless, desperate, hands twisting in her coat.

you pull back only to breathe, only to look at her, and then you’re kissing again.

she backs you against the stone chapel wall, both of you shaking, with the raw ache of holding on to something that’s already slipping through your fingers. she kisses down your jaw, your throat. her cloves hand brushes against your ribs, like she wants to remember exactly how you feel beneath all the fabric and constraint.

“i would have kept you hidden,” she whispers into your skin. “i would have run with you. i would have married you in the woods, in secret. without a priest. without anything but your name in my mouth.” you feel your whole chest shatter.

“i would have said yes,” you breathe. 

when she hears those words fall out of your mouth, she stops. and for a moment, the world doesn’t spin.

she closes her eyes and presses her forehead to yours. her lashes are wet. “we could’ve had a life,” she whispers.

you can’t answer. there's nothing for you to say. so she says it, for the both of you. 

“we loved each other too late.” you nod, and your tears fall silently between you. her hands slip to your waist. her fingers tighten, memorizing the shape of you, the warmth of you.

you kiss her again, slowly this time.

like forgiveness.

like an apology.

like a goodbye.

when you finally step back, neither of you want to move.

then manon says, barely audible, “don’t look back. if you do, i’ll chase after you. and i know you’ll let me.” you nod.

you turn and find the strength to walk away. you feel her still, behind you, not calling your name. because she promised she wouldn’t.

the carriage is waiting when you return.

you get in without speaking. your mother comments that your cheeks are flushed, you only nod. you don’t look out the window. you don’t look at anything at all. 

your hands rest in your lap like they no longer belong to you. and when the wheels begin to turn, carrying you away from roselane, from the chapel, from her, you keep your eyes forward. you don’t look back. because if you do, she’ll chase you.

and you’ll let her.

and you can’t.

manon watches you go, each step quieter than the last, until the trees begin to swallow you. 

the blue and grey hem of your cloak vanishes behind the frost covered hedges. the soft echo of your boots fades. and then… you’re gone.

really gone.

and manon is left alone in the clearing, still holding the shape of your warmth against her body like an afterimage. she doesn’t move. she stands frozen, hands curled at her sides like they’re supposed to be touching something. like they remember holding you. 

the cold rushes in slowly. at first, it stings her throat, then her nose, then her eyes. but that isn’t the wind.

it’s grief

it rises in her so quickly she doesn't have time to steel herself. doesn’t even have time to take a breath.

she collapses to the earth like she's been undone. her palms are braced against wet moss, her shoulders shaking, hair falling forward and cloaking her face. a sob tears free from  her chest before she can stop it.

she cries like she’s never cried in her life. it’s sharp, broken. the sobs leave her breathless. there’s no elegance to them, no poise. her hands fist the ground like it can hold her together, like it can stop the way her body fractures around the hollow space you used to fill.

she stays there long after the sun has dipped low behind the trees, long after the frost has begun to return to the grass. until her hands are numb. until her throat is raw.

there’s no more hiding it. no more pretending to be the strong one, the careful one, the one who didn’t need.

she needed.

she still needs. 

that night, she doesn't sleep, she doesn't speak, she doesn't change out of her coat. 

she lies on her side, atop her bed, staring at the wall, clutching the corner of the scarf you had once left in her hands. the scarf that still smells like you.

she stays like that until morning. and still, the ache does not pass.

sunday, your day.

the chapel garden.

the narrow gate only you used.

the sky is pale and unkind. manon dresses before the sun has risen, pulling on her best gloves with slow, thoughtless fingers. for a moment, she forgets what she’s doing. she almost ties her hair in the way you liked. she almost gathers her books, the slim volume of verses she’s promised to read next. then she stops. it hits her.

there's no meeting today.

there will be no soft footsteps on the path behind the chapel. no shadow moving through ivy, no smile, no gloved hand brushing hers, lingering just a little too long.

not this sunday.

not ever again. 

manon stands in the middle of her room and lets the truth crush her. no tears this time.

this time she just sits. and she writes.

y/n, 

i do not know if i have the right to write to you.

i do not know what i expect from this. nothing, i suppose. only that the stabbing in my chest refuses to quiet, and words are the only thing i’ve ever had to offer.

so i will write what i never said aloud.

i love you.

there. i’ve said it.

not with breath, not with lips, not with the press of your name against my mouth in the dark, but with ink. with something that might last longer than i will.

i love you.

i love you, y/n.

i love you for how you looked at me like the sky was something we could touch.

i love you for how you kissed me. not with fear but with devotion. like i was real. like i was yours.

and god help me, i loved you for leaving. even if it broke me

because i know why you did it. i know the weight you were born under. i know the coldness of expectation, the velvet cage, the needle fine stitching of duty into your skin.

but i also know how you looked at me the last time.

i know your hands on my waist.

and i know that if you had turned around, even once, i would’ve chased you.

i would’ve burned down the world for you.

i still would.

i do not know what your house in kent looks like.

i do not know if you sleep soundly.

i do not know if he kisses your forehead when you cry or if he even knows that you do.

but i know you love me. even now. even still.

and i will carry that love in my body until it rots away from me.

until i am nothing but earth and ash and the echo of your name.

you-

manon stares at the letter with shaking hands. the tears come again, slower this time, silent and scalding. she presses her knuckles to her mouth to keep from sobbing. she bends forward, folding herself around the weight of it. and when she can no longer look at what she’s written, she tears the letter in half.

then again.

and again. 

until there is nothing left but paper shards and a silence far colder than the one before. when she could breathe again, barely, she fed the paper into the hearth and watched the flames take it.

she watched it burn slowly.

like her love.

like the memories.

like the life she’ll never have.

you wake before the house does.

not because you’re restless, but because your body is used to this. the quiet stirrings of habit. the low, familiar ache of anticipation that once felt like hope. your hands reach for the gloves before your mind catches up. you stop yourself.

you sit back on the edge of your bed, staring at your palms. you are not going.

there’s nowhere to go.

you told her goodbye, and you didn’t look back.

god, you didn’t look back.

you dress anyway.

esther says nothing when she brings up your tea. she just watches you carefully, her eyes flicking to the window and then back to your too-still face. you think she knows. at least… enough.

your mother sends for you after breakfast.

there are many details to discuss. what lace to use for the sleeves of your wedding gown, how many guests will attend the ceremony at the warwick estate, whether your hair should be down or pinned beneath the veil. 

you nod at all the right moments, but you aren’t really there.

your body is in kent, in the drawing room of the new house with its high ceilings and cold, blue wales. but your soul is still behind the chapel in rutledge. 

you excuse yourself before tea. you say you’re going to write letters, though you bring no parchment.

instead, you sit at the window with your knees pulled to your chest, watching the trees sway under the pale sun. you rest your chin on your arm as you stature out the window. you see the cloudy sky and imagine that manon is there. at the chapel

even though, you know, she isn’t.

still, your eyes blur.

you try not to cry. you try to be good.

but you're not good, not really.

you’re a girl who kissed another girl in secret gardens. who held her hand like a promise. who tasted snowflakes from her mouth and whispered dreams into her collar.

you’re a girl who ran through frostbitten fields for a love she could not keep.

when the first sob comes, it's silent. just a breath caught too hard.

then another. until your chest is heaving and your teeth knit the sleeve of your dress to keep from wailing. your sobs are sudden and full bodied. your hand clutches the windowsill like it might jeep you from falling. you gasp through it, chest stuttering, jaw tight.

you miss her.

you miss her so much it feels like a punishment.

you are not ever going to stop missing her.

not even after the dress is fitted, not even after the vows are said.

not even after you wake beside a man with a kind voice and a library full of the same poems she once read aloud.

you will not stop missing her.

not when the last snowdrop blooms

not when spring comes.

not ever.

you curl in on yourself, burying your face in your arm. you cry for the garden, for the chapel, for the kisses you’ll never steal and the poems she’ll never finish and the future that was never yours to keep.

you cry because sunday has come and she is not waiting. because you did what you were supposed to do.

and it wrecked you.

esther finds you like this. collapsed at the window. her hands are gentle when they touch your shoulders, her voice soft. “oh, miss…” you don’t look up, you can’t. you just let her hold you. and for the first time, you admit it aloud. voice thick and ruined and barely a whisper.

“i loved her.”

esther doesn’t flinch.

she just closes her eyes for a moment, then presses your head more tightly to her shoulder. you can feel the tension in her jaw. not from judgement, not from shock, but from holding herself still so you can fall apart. “i know,” she whispers.

no ‘it’s alright’

no ‘you’ll be fine’

just ‘i know’

because perhaps she’d seen it all along. the way your smiles came slower before sundays, the smile and soft twitch in your fingers when snowdrops appeared on the sill, the way your eyes never quite looked like they were meant to be here, in kent, behind this window. maybe she’d known before you had.

you do not speak after that, there’s nothing left to be said.

she holds you while the sun drifts behind grey clouds again. while the fire burns down, the tea in the untouched tray goes cold beside you. when evening falls, she helps you out of your dress, brushes your hair in silence and pulls the blankets over your shoulders.

you are too tired to weep again, but not tired enough to forget.

you don't forget.

you fall asleep with manon’s name pressed to the roof of your mouth. and for the first time since you left, you dream of her again.

but in this dream, she doesn’t look sad. she’s smiling.

and she is looking at you like you’re still hers.

you’re told it’s a beautiful day for a wedding.

esther stands behind you, fastening the final button down your back with hands that try not to shake.

she hasn’t spoken since helping you into the dress. “you look…” she begins now, her voice barely above a breath. she doesn’t finish, her lips tremble like she’s trying not to ruin your rouge. instead, she lifts your veil, her fingers catching in the lace for a moment, then lets it fall gently over your shoulders. she adjusts it and steps back.

you don't look at her. you look at the mirror.

and a stranger looks back.

and a stranger blinks back.

ivory satin, hair pinned with pearls, lips the colour of cherries, even though you feel ashen. you try to find yourself in the reflection.

you cant.

you are a picture someone else has painted. a body clothed in promises you never made.

a doll.

a daughter.

a bride.

there’s a knock at the door. “five minutes,” comes your mother’s voice.

esther opens it slightly, murmuring a reply, then closes it again. she turns to you, her face caught between pride and pity.

you expect her to say something, but she only nods.

you walk to the door yourself. your legs don't shake, your hands do, your heart does. 

but your feet carry you forward all the same. because what choice is left? what choice is ever left for girls like you?

the chapel doors open.

and for a moment, just a moment, everything stills. 

the crowd turns to face you. heads lift, fans flutter. a thousand eyes fasten their gaze like pins through velvet.

and all you can think is, she’s not here.

manon is not in this room.

she is not at the end of this aisle.

she is not watching from the shadows, waiting to steal you away like some foolish, romantic thought you haven’t yet been taught to fear.

she is nowhere.

you are alone.

except you aren’t.

the chapel is full. of sound, of guests, of petals crushed beneath polished heels, of the scent of lilies you never asked for.

and of lord william warwick, standing beside the altar in a fine dark coat, his hands folded behind him. his expression is neutral, polite. he offers a soft, practiced smile. you walk because you must. because the hush is turning awkward. because your mother’s voice hisses, “now, y/n,” from behind the door.

you take your first step, then the hem of your dress whispers across the stone.

you do not look at william. you do not look at your father, proud and waiting like this is his triumph. 

you look ahead. past the veil, past the crowd. and in your mind, you try to summon her. 

the shape of manon’s eyes when she laughed too hard.

the slope of her mouth when she called you brave.

the feel of her breath at your neck when she whispered your name like it meant something holy.

holy.

there it is again. the ache surges like a wave breaking behind your ribs.

you inhale once. sharply. and then your hand is being offered. you give it, you have to because this is your life now, stitched together by silence and ceremony. 

the vows are spoken. you say i do.

because they expect you to. because william warwick is kind, and clever, and gentle, and he deserves someone who can love him.

but you are not that girl. not now. not ever.

the ring is cold as it slides onto your promised finger. gold, weightless, and final. you smile, just as practiced. soft and demure, chin tilted just so, eyes lowered like a secret. he leans in. his lips brush yours, its gentle and unassuming. 

there is no fire. 

there is no tremble.

just a kiss. clean, quiet, and dry.

its polite.

you hear the sound of applause before you can even register that it’s over. a room full of hands clapping, muffled by gloves and distance. like thunder echoing from somewhere very far away. the light through the chapel windows glows pale gold, pouring across the pews in solemn shafts. it hits your cheekbones, your lashes, the corner of your mouth, and it makes your tears shimmer like joy.

as though this is a blessing.

as though this is what you wanted.

you do not wipe them away.

let them think you’re overcome.

let them think this is love.

let them think whatever they like, because none of it matters.

not now.

not anymore.

the house is beautiful.

grand in a way that feels borrowed. tall windows and tall ceilings, a hearth in every room, the wallpaper is pale green with tiny painted vines, someone left a vase of lavender on the writing desk, a maid unpacks your gloves, your husband calls you dear. everything is tidy. painless. silent.

you thank the servants, you say all the right words.

you move like someone who belongs here.

but when the door closes behind you that evening, when your dress is unlaced and your hair is let down and you sit, finally, by the edge of the bed, you begin to unravel.

the lamps glows low in the corner. there’s a faint scent of tea from the tray left untouched. you sit at the writing desk in your nightgown, the sleeves pulled over your wrists. a sheet of paper in front of you, a pen in your hand. you don’t know what you’re doing until your hand begins to move.

slow, careful and grieving.

manon,

i do not know what time it is.

only that i cannot sleep.

i’ve tried. god knows i’ve tried. i’ve lain beside him with my hands folded neatly and my eyes closed and my chest aching like something caged.

but i cannot stop thinking of you.

i cannot stop seeing you in that last moment. your eyes, the way you did not run after me. the way i did not look back.

you do not know how close i was to doing it. how badly i wanted you to stop me, to pull me back with nothing but my name.

i thought i could be someone else.

i wore the ivory dress, i stood beside him, i smiled when i was meant to, and i did not cry, though my throat burned from holding it in. the words yes and thank you slipped out of me like a thread pulled through fabric, and now i feel hollow, like someone else is living my life from inside my body.

i thought if i smiled enough, if i stood still enough, if i stitched myself tight enough into this life, i would stop missing the sweet sound of your laughter.

but i was wrong.

sometimes i try to remember what your hands felt like, what the garden behind the chapel smelled like, what your voice sounded like when you were not afraid.

but everything is fading. and that frightens me more than anything.

i do not want to forget you.

the house is quiet, so quiet it hums.

my hands are cold, my ring feels too heavy.

and i keep thinking, had i been brave… if i had just asked you to come with me. if i had just said yes to the right person,

maybe things would be different and maybe, just maybe, i would still be yours.

i wanted to write something beautiful, i wanted to tell you that i made a mistake. 

that i still love you.

that i always will.

but that will not change anything, will it?

it will not unfasten the buttons down the back of this marriage, it will not undo the papers signed, it will not unteach me obedience.

and even if i had wrote it all, poured every last bit of myself onto this page and sent it to you, what then?

would you come?

would i leave?

would i be brave enough?

no. 

you deserve more than a memory.

you deserve someone who could have loved you out loud.

and i am tired of pretending that person is me.

you don’t sign it.

you fold the page once, then again, then slide it into the drawer with your gloves and close it like a secret.

no one will read it, no one ever will.

but you had to write it.

but manon would’ve said it all, out loud.

and for a moment, you pretend you're still beside her, in the garden, the frost beneath your knees, her hand against your cheek. for a moment, a final moment, you let yourself cry. the kind that leaves your ribs sore and your breath torn in two. the kind of crying that ruins you.

because you already are.

the next morning, you wake before your husband.

the light is soft through the curtains, brushing the edge of the four poster bed. your gown is folded neatly on the chair where the maid had left it. the house is already awake. you can hear the creek of floorboards, the clink of dishes, the slow rhythm of a household returning to its order. 

you lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. your chest feel empty and full all at once. like a room where something used to be. when he stirs beside you, you smile automatically. effortlessly. “good morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. he’s kind, gentle. the kind of man your mother would call steady. and maybe he is.

maybe you’ll be, too.

you dress with careful precision. high collar, tidy cuffs, hair pinned smoothly, pearl earrings. you look every bit the proper lady of the house. in the mirror, you barely recognize yourself.

at breakfast, you laugh.

you sit across from him at the long dining table, a single vase of fresh hyacinths between you. he asks how you slept. you say, well. you butter your toast, you sip your tea. 

you tell him the house is beautiful. 

you compliment the jam.

you ask him questions about his work, to which he answers kindly, hands folded, posture easy. he tells you a story about the stables. you smile at the right moments. you even laugh, light, practiced and polite. it sounds almost real. he says, “you seem happy.” and you don't flinch. 

you look up, meeting his eyes across the table, and say, “i am.”

then you take another sip of tea and swallow it like it doesn't taste like regret.

after breakfast, he asks if you’d like to walk with him in the garden. you say yes.

you take his arm and walk beneath the trimmed hedges and manicured rows of winter flowers and tell yourself this will become easier. this will become normal.

this is what you chose.

and if theres a part of you, the smallest part, that aches when you pass the camellias because their colour reminds you of the ribbon manon once wore around her neck, you ignore it. you ignore the way your hand feels wrong in his. you ignore the way your lungs are tight by the end of the walk.

because you are a wife now.

but that night, when the house is quiet, and the halls are empty, and you are alone once more in your room, you light a candle and sit beside the window.

you do not speak. you simply sit with your hands in your lap and listen to the sound of nothing. a wind touches the glass. the moon is thin and far away. 

you reach for the letter you never sent, the one hidden beneath your drawer, folded twice. you press it flat. you trace the creases but you do not open it.

you don't need to.

you already know every word.

somewhere, very far from here, the snow is melting. the frost is loosening its grip from the chapel stone. the garden will bloom again.

she will bloom again.

you close your eyes and imagine her turning toward the light.

you lower the letter gently into the fire and you watch it burn. not as a letting go.

but as a promise kept.

for y/n.

by m.b., winter, 1819.

i have seen beauty in many forms:

in marble busts, in the curl of a rose,

in the snow’s hush upon a chapel roof.

but never until you did i see it breathe.

you move like music left unwritten,

like the thought before the prayer,

like morning sunlight in a shuttered room.

so quiet i almost feared to touch it.

your voice lives somewhere beneath my skin.

a glance from you and i forget.

i forget my name, my station,

my need for breath.

what sin it is.

to live in a time where loving you

must be my most silent art.

my secret rebellion stitched in the hem of my days.

i would follow you anywhere,

through the hedgerows. across the heather.

to the ends of the world

or to ruin.

and yet,

how soft you were when you laid your head to rest upon me,

how gentle your hands when they met mine, gloved and trembling.

you looked at me like i was more than flesh.

more than fate.

more than a girl with no name for what she felt.

i am yours.

not in the way the world permits,

but in the quiet. in the ache. in the poem.

where they cannot take you from me.

tonight’s hotel is even nicer than the last. sleek, modern, draped in white and gold like it’s pretending not to be indulgent. you pass through the lobby like a shadow, neither acknowledged nor stopped. your name is already on the guest list. a courtesy, no doubt arranged hours earlier by her manager, her assistant—someone who doesn’t ask questions. someone who thinks you’re a stylist, or a friend.

when the elevator doors close, you take a breath.

because it’s not just lust that makes your hands tremble. it’s the quiet thrill of being chosen again. it’s how every time she calls, she’s not supposed to, and you’re not supposed to answer.

but you do. you always do.

the hallway is quiet. suite 2006. you knock once, she opens immediately. and just like that, the world narrows.

daniela’s in silk. pale champagne-coloured, thin straps slipping down her shoulders like a secret she’s already halfway ready to tell. her hair’s up, loose curls framing her cheekbones, and there’s a glass of red wine in her hand that she abandons on the console the moment you step inside.

she closes the door behind you and leans in close, her voice brushing your skin before her lips do.

“took you long enough,” she says softly, but her mouth is smiling against your jaw. “i was starting to think you’d forgotten how to follow instructions.”

“not a chance,” you murmur.

there’s no rush. there never is. daniela is precise. she takes her time. with her, foreplay is an art form, the way her fingers brush your back as she walks by, the way her perfume lingers when she passes you the wineglass, the way she looks at you over the rim of her drink like she’s memorizing your shape.

you talk for a little while. or, rather, you flirt through half-sentences and inside jokes no one else knows exist. you sit near each other on the couch, your knees grazing hers, and her hand resting on your thigh like it was always meant to be there. outside, the city stretches out beneath the balcony, glowing and oblivious.

she touches your cheek. “you look good.” “so do you.”

“i’m serious,” she says, eyes soft now. “you look like trouble.”

“and you look like someone who likes it.” daniela hums in approval and leans in.

the kiss starts slow. careful. like she wants to savor it. but it deepens fast, as it always does, all need and urgency, as if she’s trying to drink you in. her hands find your waist, your neck, your back, pulling you onto her lap, her body a magnetic force you’ve never been able to resist.

the wine is forgotten. the city noise fades. all that’s left is her. her hands, her lips, her sighs in your ear when you whisper her name like it’s holy.

you make it to the bed, eventually. clothes scattered like petals. sheets tangled. her breath catching when you laugh against her throat. she holds you like she can’t help it.

and maybe she can’t.

her fingers trail along your jawline, down your neck, teasing every sensitive spot she knows will make you shiver. her lips brush your earlobe, and she whispers, “i want you, all of you.”

you shiver at her words, heat pooling low in your belly as she presses soft kisses along your collarbone and chest, every touch setting fire to your skin.

her hands roam under your shirt, palms warm and sure, while her mouth traces slow circles on your sternum. you arch into her, needing more, craving her touch like air.

she grins against your skin, biting lightly as she trails downward, hands slipping beneath your waistband with expert ease. your breath hitches, fingers tangling in her hair as she takes her time, savouring every inch, every gasp, every whispered plea.

you pull her up for a fierce kiss, tongues dancing, teeth grazing, both of you melting together in a rhythm only you two understand.

-

you wake to the weight of her body curled against yours, her breath warm and steady on your neck. you reach back, fingers brushing the soft curls that spill over her shoulder.

“stay,” you whisper.

her lips twitch into a smile. “i wish i could.”

you turn to face her, tracing her cheek with your thumb, memorizing the curve of her mouth, the softness in her eyes that she rarely shows anyone else.

she catches your hand, holding it to her chest where you can feel her rapid heartbeat.

you could stay like this forever. but you won’t.

her arm tightens around your waist. “you leave early, right?”

“before housekeeping. like always.”

a pause.

“i hate that,” she says, almost too quietly.

you don’t answer. because what would you even say?

this is the arrangement. unnamed, unclaimed, but undeniably real in the dark. you both agreed, no expectations. but lately, the lines blur. the silences hold weight. the kisses last too long. she watches you like she doesn’t want you to disappear. and you feel it, deep in your chest, every time she lets go first.

she turns to you, her brow furrowed like she’s thinking too much again.

“do you ever think about what this would be like if…” she trails off.

“if?” you echo.

“if i weren’t…me. if you weren’t just…in hotel rooms.”

you don’t answer right away. instead, you reach for her hand, lacing your fingers through hers.

“i think about it more than i should,” you admit.

she nods, staring down at your hands like they’re dangerous.

“me too.”

“tell me you want more than this,” you say, voice barely audible.

she sighs, a mix of frustration and longing. “i want everything. but i’m too afraid to ask for it.”

you lean in, kissing her gently, promising with your lips what words can’t yet say.

“it’s not real, but i’ll try to pretend…”

the sun starts to rise. the light creeps in slowly, wrapping everything in amber. you sit up, pulling the sheets around your chest, looking out toward the city. daniela moves behind you, her hand resting on your back.

“i have a flight at eleven,” she says. “i know.”

“i’ll text you.”

“you always do.”

you dress slowly. she watches. you don’t say goodbye when you leave. she never walks you out. but you both linger in the doorway a second too long.

and as you step back into the elevator, heart heavy but still glowing, your phone buzzes.

a message, already. no words. just a pin. a city you’ve never been to, you smile.

because she doesn’t belong to you.

but somehow, she still keeps calling you home.

you stop waiting for her texts. you start sitting farther away in rehearsals. you leave before she can find you backstage.

you stop looking at her like you’re still hoping she’ll choose you.

and she notices.

it’s in the way her voice wavers during vocal runs when you don’t meet her eyes. in the way she stays behind after practices, watching you walk out of the room without turning back. in the way her laugh rings hollow now, like she’s trying to convince herself she’s still happy.

the others notice too.

manon sees it first. she’s always watching.

lara sees it in your posture.

sophia’s the one who says it out loud, during a late-night takeout run when the three of them are waiting for their orders.

“okay,” she says, staring at the pickup counter. “is it just me or do they both look, like, dead inside?”

“it’s not just you,” lara sighs. “i heard crying in the bathroom after rehearsal two days ago. don’t know which one it was, but...”

manon peels the wrapper off her straw. “it’s both of them. they’re just miserable in shifts.”

“you’d think after all this time they’d get over themselves and talk,” sophia mutters.

“they’re not gonna,” manon says. “not unless we do something.”

lara raises an eyebrow. “like what?”

manon shrugs. “i dunno. trap them in a room until they work their shit out?”

sophia looks way too into the idea. “no wait…seriously. like... do it old-school. lock the door. no one leaves until someone cries.”

manon glances at lara, who’s already nodding. “they’re useless. it’s time.”

—

they do it after practice.

manon times it perfectly. she pulls dani aside and says, “hey, can you grab my jacket in the second vocal room?” sophia asks you to check for her phone charger in the same place. lara pretends she forgot her speaker.

you both walk in, separately, at almost the same moment.

you freeze when you see her.

she freezes when she sees you.

then the door slams shut behind you. click.

locked.

you whip around. “what the-?”

manon’s voice is heard from the other side. “you’re welcome!” “we’ll be back in an hour!” you hear sophia yell out, followed by lara. “don’t kill each other!”

then silence.

daniela is sitting on the edge of the platform riser. she looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. you stand by the wall, arms crossed, heart pounding in your ears.

at first, neither of you say anything. the air is thick. full of unsaid things. heavy with the weight of everything that never got to be love.

finally, daniela breaks the silence. her voice is small, careful.

“why have you been ignoring me?”

you laugh, but it’s cold. “you can’t be serious.”

she winces. “i mean- i know you’ve been mad. but… not like this.”

you look at her slowly, exhaustion pooling in your chest.

“you said you were straight,” you say. “on a livestream. with me right next to you. and you acted like what we had, like i, didn’t mean anything.”

daniela opens her mouth, but you hold up your hand.

“you don’t get it,” you continue, voice trembling. “i gave you everything. i let you into parts of me i’ve never let anyone near. and you didn’t even hesitate to shut it all down.”

tears prick at your eyes, and you hate how easy it is for them to fall now.

“you laughed. you laughed and said you were straight like i was just another joke to you. like i wasn’t someone you were crawling into bed with every night.”

daniela flinches. she’s crying now too.

“i wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“well you did,” you say, voice breaking. “and you never apologized. you just left me to figure it out alone. i was humiliated, dani. i didn’t want to be your secret. i wanted to be your person.”

daniela stands up. steps closer. desperate now.

“you are my person,” she says. “i just, i didn’t know how to say it. i was scared. everything in me was screaming to say something but i panicked. and then when you stopped talking to me i thought maybe you were just... done.”

you wipe your face. “i was trying to protect myself. because loving you hurt. because you made me feel like i was something to be ashamed of.”

her voice cracks. “you’re not. you never were.”

“then why didn’t you fight for me?”

“i didn’t know how,” she says. “but i want to now.” you hesitate. it’s still raw. still so broken in places.

“you really think it’s that simple?” you whisper. “that you can just show up now and everything will be okay?”

daniela drops to her knees in front of you. her hands shake as she reaches for yours but doesn’t touch, just hovers.

“i love you,” she says. “i love you so much it makes everything else feel smaller. and i want to try again. out loud. publicly. with you. if you’ll let me. if you can still let me in.”

you look at her. really look.

she’s not hiding anymore. not even a little.

and finally, finally, she whispers, “we don’t have to call it the end.”

your walls don’t fall in one go. but you let her take your hand. and you let yourself hope.

—

the next few days feel different. lighter. real.

you don’t talk about it with the others, but they know. you walk a little closer to each other again. daniela doesn’t reach for your hand in secret anymore.

you laugh at her again. you let her touch you in front of people. you even let her kiss your cheek backstage, once, when she thought no one was looking, but manon definitely was, and she winked like a menace.

you don’t say the word “together” out loud. but it lives in the space between your smiles.

a couple days later, you’re doing a chill livestream with daniela, manon, and lara, promoting gnarly, answering questions, teasing each other.

it feels like it used to. better, even.

daniela reaches across you to grab a hair clip from the table, and says without thinking, “love, can you pass me that notebook?”

you go still.

manon and lara freeze too. wide-eyed.

daniela doesn’t even blink. she’s completely casual. like she didn’t just drop the word love in front of tens of thousands of fans.

you glance at her, stunned, then you smile. huge. real. “of course, my love.”

and you hand her the notebook without breaking eye contact.

manon immediately makes a fake gagging noise. lara dramatically falls back onto the couch, muttering “i’m gonna be sick.”

daniela just grins. you laugh.

and this time, no one hides. no one runs.

maybe this is what it means to start again. not from scratch,

but from something earned.

everything’s still there, her laugh, her hoodie draped over a chair, the late-night snacks she picks at in the green room. but now, there’s something missing.

the warmth that used to live in the silence between you. the comfort of her hand brushing yours when no one was looking. the secret you used to share like a song only you two could hear.

you still talk.

you still work together, still dance, still stand next to each other in interviews.

you still laugh when she says something stupid and roll your eyes when she steals the last fry. and every so often, she slips.

a look that lasts too long.

a text at 2:14 a.m.

a kiss behind a locked bathroom door in a hotel in korea.

you let her. every time, you let her. because you want to believe maybe this time will be different. that she’ll wake up and finally say it out loud.

choose you out loud.

but she never does.

instead, she pulls away before the sun comes up and says, “we should keep this between us,” like that’s love.

—

you start pulling back. not all at once, but in tiny pieces.

you answer her texts slower, you start sleeping with your door locked, you stop waiting for her to choose you.

and one day, you realize it’s not even anger anymore. it’s grief. grief for the version of her you thought might fight for you.

—

it’s been three months. enough time to fake some kind of peace.

you’re sitting on the floor of the dance studio with lara, scrolling through photos between run-throughs. she’s got her head on your shoulder, watching your screen.

you swipe past a blurry selfie, sunlight and someone else’s smile tucked into your neck.

“who’s that?” lara grins.

you hesitate for half a beat. “oh, uhm. her name’s mia,” you say finally. “we’ve been seeing each other a little.”

lara blinks. then smiles softly, genuine. “you look happy.”

you do. or maybe you're trying to be.

you don’t look up at her, but someone else hears.

across the studio, daniela freezes mid-step, she wasn’t supposed to be listening. she wasn’t supposed to care.

but she does.

“you’re seeing someone?”

you look up. your stomach sinks. dani’s standing there, arms crossed, trying too hard to sound casual.

lara stands, sensing the tension and quietly backing away.

you nod. “yeah.” dani doesn’t say anything, just stares.

“what’s her name again?” she asks, tone sharp. “mia.” “right.” she scoffs. “that was fast.”

your jaw tightens. “it’s been three months, dani.”

“so what, you’re just over it now?” you blink. a bitter laugh leaves your chest. “over what?” she doesn’t answer. “over you pretending i didn’t exist? or you only wanting me when no one else was watching?” daniela’s face hardens. “you know why it had to be that way.”

“no,” you say, louder now. “i don’t.”

she steps closer, arms falling to her sides. “i had to protect myself. my image. if i say something, if we confirm anything, it turns into a headline, a scandal. not a relationship.”

you shake your head, voice shaking. “you didn’t have to protect yourself. you just had to keep me hidden.” her eyes flash. “that’s not fair-” “you’re right, it’s not.” she swallows hard. “you think i don’t care about you?” you laugh, dry and tired. “you care about the version of me that lives in secret. you care about me in hotel rooms and locked bathrooms and 2 a.m. phone calls. but you don’t care about me when people are watching. you never have.”

“that’s not true.” “then why-” your voice breaks, and you try again, quieter. “why did you let me sit there on that livestream while you called yourself straight? while everyone watched and knew and you still couldn’t even look at me?”

she looks like she might cry. but you’re already past the place where that changes anything. “i was scared,” she says, barely above a whisper. “i didn’t know what would happen if i said it.”

“i know what happened when you didn’t.” your voice cracks. “i sat there like a ghost. like i didn’t matter. like i wasn’t the one you’d been crawling into bed with for months. like none of it was real.”

she’s shaking her head now. “it was real.”

“then why couldn’t you say it?”

“because i’m not you,” she snaps suddenly. “i don’t know how to be that brave.”

and that, that’s what does it. you go still.

you look her dead in the eyes and say, “i wasn’t brave, daniela. i was in love. there’s a difference.”

her breath catches. her lips part and she says nothing.

you stare at her for a long moment, and then, quietly, “i needed someone who wouldn’t hide me.”

you turn, walking away slowly, not out of drama but out of the weight of finally putting something down.

and her voice follows you, cracking in the silence. “is this really it?” you stop at the door.

“you made it ‘it’ the second you cared more about being seen as straight than being seen with me.”

and this time, you don’t wait for her to follow. you don’t want her to.

because loving someone isn’t supposed to feel like disappearing.

and you’re done being invisible.