In Hyraj’s arms, all I could hear was the heavy beat of my heart and her gentle breaths. Without thinking, I copied her breathing. Maybe, my heart copied hers too, slowing down to a steady rhythm.

What did we do now? I didn’t know. This wasn’t something I’d done before, having a fight with someone I cared about. It wasn’t enough to just huff and stomp about and wake up tomorrow like nothing had happened. I hurt her, I knew, and she hurt me, and I didn’t know what to say, what to do, to make everything better.

It felt painful to force myself to not ignore it all. Like a scab, my mind kept telling me to leave it while my fingers itched to pick at it.

But it wasn’t a scab. It was a splinter, still buried inside both of us. I’d hurt her. Hurt her so much she kissed me. And she kissed me. I trusted her and she kissed me.

I could have laughed, sounding so stupid when I put it like that. But it was the truth. Even if I had liked it, that wouldn’t have made it okay. Maybe things were different here, but I wasn’t from here, being kissed like that not something I wanted. If I hadn’t been so out of it, I definitely would have shoved her away the moment she tried.

Hurting each other didn’t make it fair, though, and would an apology be enough? I didn’t know. With kids, it was enough to say sorry. They grew and learned and forgave and forgot.

I couldn’t.

After being held by her for so long, I turned my head away, gently pushed her. It took her a moment, then she let go of me and pulled back. Her gaze tried to find mine, but I didn’t look at her, not like I did before. Shuffling back, I rested against the wall, while she settled on the end of the bed, like she was respecting the distance I put between us.

How did we fix something that couldn’t be fixed?

Well, maybe I was wrong, but I wanted to know how I had hurt her. I wanted to understand her pain—so I wouldn’t make the same mistake. To ask her that….

I thought I should be honest too.

“When I was… five?” I said, trying to speak clearly, but my throat felt tight, “I… couldn’t sleep some nights. Not sleeping is… bad, so I thought the… people looking after us would be mad at me for not sleeping. Then it was late, so they were sleeping, so I thought they would be mad at me for waking them up. Alone and so scared and I couldn’t cry.”

I couldn’t help but smile, this tragic memory so childish to me now. More than being liked, it had always been about not being hated, but that meant always thinking about how people could hate me. Carving into my head: I am someone who is easily hated.

Taking a deep breath, I settled myself, ready to get to the point with her. “Sometimes… I’m like that again. I am scared and I… think worse and worse things and, even if I know you’re not mad, I still think you are.”

Silence falling, she softly asked, “Like today?”

I nodded. Then, realising what I’d done, did the tappy thing with my hand instead. She probably knew by now what nodding meant. Still, I was in this world now. “I…. You are… very special. I can’t rely on you. I am scared you will leave me. Because you can’t rely on me. The cook, and Mrs Frinchen, and Mr Arl… I can be useful to them. They are… living simple lifes. I don’t want much. If I… can have a simple job, live in a simple home, and live a simple life, I can be happy. But you—you want more than that, don’t you?”

Stopping myself there, I didn’t want to put words in her mouth.

“I can follow you, maybe for a year, maybe for five years, but I know… there’s a day where I have to stop. It is… better sooner. I think. You don’t need me, so I… slow you down.”

My thoughts losing all sense, I said no more. Had said enough. Had hopefully said enough. Saying this much already felt so painful in a way nothing else had before. I felt so childish, so stupid, so ungrateful—so easily hated. After spending so long trying to make her like me, now told her clearly why she should hate me.

Vulnerable. I hadn’t understood what that meant before, not really. It sounded so silly in books. Part of why I preferred reading about windmills and dams, these things very much real. Why would telling someone how you felt make you feel “naked”? Why would you tell someone if it made you feel like that?

Because, sometimes, there was someone you wanted to show your naked self. Someone you needed to show your naked self. You had to pick the scab and trust them to gently clean the wound, otherwise it would heal into another scar.

I already had too many scars.

Though I hadn’t looked at her while speaking, I felt her gaze, saw her staring at me out the corner of my eye. Even now, she looked on with her neutral expression. Not the little smile I had come to know her for, but not her mask either.

Then she adjusted her position, turning away, as if giving me room to look at her. She sat as elegantly as ever, even now, her hands on her lap with her fingers woven, palms down. I had tried and struggled to copy her a few times before, my wrists not quite flexible enough to do that comfortably, while she could probably sit like that for hours without a problem. And despite that, her elbows didn’t stick out, her arms making gentle curves. Her knees were touching, feet slightly apart; how a lady “ought” to sit according to her book.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“That is it,” she said, her voice quiet, yet firm, “this kind of thing… you have asked before why I prefer you. Truth spoken, I did not answer clearly at the time. This kind of thing, I could tell you a hundred little things I have noticed, a hundred moments we have shared; however, these are… fleeting.

“Not only that, I could use reason. An imagination, say I was not someone so… special. Would you truly believe in my love then or would you still find excuses? Which two people are ever equal in a relationship? Another line of reason. How is it that, in the time we spent together, I found so many ways in which I love you while you apparently found none to love me?”

Her words left me kind of embarrassed. She had… clearly put a lot of thought into this.

“As beautiful as I am, all beauty fades. As wealthy as I am, in marriage is shared.” She softly smiled, then said, “That is a famous quote from a renowned performer of operas. She gave it when asked why she would retire so young. I always found it… romantic. When she speaks of wealth, I do not imagine money, but life. Her laughter, her tears, all those things she was so renowned for on the stage, now to be shared with her partner alone….”

After a deep sigh, she continued.

“If you… truly believe you cannot come to prefer me, then yes, it is for the best that we find you somewhere comfortable to stay. I honestly didn’t think you disliked travelling, so my thanks for telling me. These kinds of things I cannot learn without being taught.”

She let out a laugh, bright at first, yet quickly faded into something hollow.

“However, if you think there is a chance, if you are willing to give me a chance, I swear with the gods for witnesses, my feelings aren’t something trivial. You are not the first one I have had my heart beat twice for. I am not some child, overwhelmed by new emotions.

“With you… I am satisfied. When the thunder rattles and my heart aches, it is knowing you are here that settles me. When I lay in bed, knowing you will be here when I wake, I sleep thoroughly. While I may crave more, selfishly hope to have a future full of firsts, I think of the days we have spent together and wish for many more like those too, seasoned with a sprinkle of affection.”

I felt at a loss, wondering if I’d made a mistake listening to her. So convincing no matter what she said. What she’d said… was that even love? What was love? That same question again coming to haunt me.

But she wasn’t finished.

“While I cannot promise to always have these same feelings, I can promise to always treat you well. Still, I truly believe that, as long as we are together, I will… always have feelings for you. Which particular feelings they are may change, but my preferring shan’t.”

I covered my face. It hurt to have someone speak so kindly about me. It really did. I couldn’t put it into words. Like hearing such an obvious lie and desperately wanting to believe it. Like a child hearing, “Everything’s going to be okay,” after being told their parents were dead. Hearing, “We’ll come get you as soon as your room is ready,” and then waiting, waiting, waiting.

Promises meant nothing to me, but that didn’t mean I felt nothing hearing them.

The frustration came out as a laugh as I asked, “How can you say it? How can you say you will treat well even when you don’t like me any more?”

She didn’t answer right away, almost making me feel proud. Like I’d finally “got” her. Like she would finally admit I was right, that this was all a mistake.

But it wasn’t going to be that easy.

“May I ask, why it is that you were kind to me when we first met?” she whispered.

“I just am,” I said, then realised that wasn’t really a full answer. “I want people to like me. If they like me, they’ll be kind to me, or won’t be mean to me.”

She nodded with her hand, breaking her perfect posture. “That is it, do you believe everyone shows kindness for the same reason?” she asked.

“Close to half,” I said—a phrase that sort of meant “more or less” rather than actually half. The language barrier really wasn’t helping me express myself well, but at least I could understand her.

A note of laughter left her lips. “How terrible the world would be if everyone thought so,” she whispered, then spoke normally. “What of family, then? Is a mother only kind so her children will pay her back?”

It was my turn to whisper. “I don’t know.”

As soon as I spoke, she realised her misstep, turning to me with such sorry eyes. But she quickly caught herself, hand clenching. “She does not. Family… is built with little kindnesses, given freely, because her child’s happiness is as if her own, doubled, while her child’s sorrows shared, halved. If a mother only cared for what good her child will bring her, there would be no spoilt children, no toys, no sweets, nor books of fantasy. She would feed them like a serlut”—this world’s horses—“and have them work the farm as soon as they can walk and only learn to follow her orders.”

I hadn’t really thought of that before. As little as we’d had at the orphanage, it was more than nothing. Not much more, but not nothing, and I could imagine us having less.

“Between us, I feel family. I will remember the little kindnesses you have shown me and give back little kindnesses without counting out what is owed. As I am sure, to those little ones, to Sisi, you have done before. Because I know you do love. I hear it in your voice, see it in your sad smile. That, even now when apart, you still think of them, still wish them well. And I know, if we do part, you will still think of me as I will think of you. Remembering and wishing the best.”

Was that love? I’d seen the kids who loved their parents, only to be left with us. They didn’t go a day without bursting into tears. Compared to that, what was the odd thought I had? Usually went days without thinking about the little ones.

While I was distracted with those thoughts, Hyraj wilted, her posture melting as her shoulders slumped forwards, head drooping down.

“At least, I hope you will. However, I know that… I have unmended your trust, perhaps even broken it. I truly despise myself for that. No, that makes it sound like I am upset with losing your trust. What I did was unconscionable. I will make no excuses for it, truly regret losing my composure, and truly regret that I hurt you. For all the good I think myself to be, to think I am no better than a scoundrel when it comes to such a matter.”

Pulled back to this, it took all my control to stop myself from stopping her, to stop myself from telling her it was fine, not to worry. Because she should worry. It wasn’t fine.

“Yes,” I said.

A single word. She froze for a second, then tensed up, then deflated with another breath, sinking so low her hands came up to hold her face, elbows on her knees. Still, I felt that urge to console her. To forgive anything and everything just to make her happy. Not because I wanted her to be happy, but because I wanted her to like me. Kissing me made her happy, so wasn’t that fine? Shouldn’t I let her do anything she wanted to me? Wouldn’t that make me irreplaceable to her?

What horrible thoughts. Horrible, horrible thoughts, not just for me, but for her. What kind of person would be happy with a lover who thought like that? She was better than that. Maybe I wasn’t, but she was.

Watching her, I only felt more broken. Even she had all these feelings inside her. Not just the good, but the bad. Such a silly thing to think about right now. Such an important thing.

Right now, her pain was the proof she loved me.