Her head rested on my thigh, her hair gently brushing against the black fabric of my robe. Her nightgown—which, for some reason, hadn't been changed since morning—was slightly wrinkled, betraying how exhausted she was. And amidst the nearly fallen camellias and blooming rose bushes, she had fallen asleep in the palace's rear garden. On my lap.

It had been forty minutes. My left leg was starting to tingle but I didn’t move because I didn’t want to.

This garden was supposed to be the site of summer banquets. A place where nobles roamed with fake laughter and hidden agendas but now, it was empty. Just the two of us, and the sound of a light breeze rustling the leaves.

She had fallen asleep while reading beside me, after a long morning filled with visits and formalities she could barely stand.

Her eyes are shut tight, her breath steady. Every now and then, her lips twitch, like she’s dreaming. Of what, I don’t know. Perhaps her childhood in her father’s court—a place she once said was brighter, more alive or maybe of the little things that make her smile during breakfast: the chirping birds, strawberry jam, or a servant accidentally dropping a plate.

Something in me—a part long buried beneath titles and expectations—aches seeing her like this. Tired, yet at peace. As if the earth itself cradled her more tenderly than I ever dared to.

A stronger breeze picks up. The ends of her hair dance with it. I resist the urge to touch her, to brush the strands behind her ear but I’m afraid it would wake her or worse, make her realize that her husband—the man who rarely says more than what’s necessary—has been in love with her for quite some time.

She thinks I don’t care because I’m too quiet, too composed. Our marriage was a treaty between two nations in search of peace. We were the cost. At least in the eyes of others but to me, she is not a price to pay. She is a gift far too delicate for hands that have known war.

She shifts slightly. Her forehead brushes against the tips of my fingers. She murmurs something. Maybe my name. Maybe someone else’s. I don’t know and that’s what hurts the most because I want to believe she’s dreaming of me—that my presence has become important enough to cross into her sleep but the uncertainty stings. That soft little sound, as gentle as it is, strikes like a whip. It reminds me that even though she sleeps in my lap, I’ve never truly known whether her heart faces the same direction as mine.

And yet, though my lips utter not a single word, though I am willing to be her place of refuge without ever asking for anything in return—still, my heart shatters at the sound of her voice.

For love, when it remains unspoken and unanswered, ever arrives with a quiet kind of sorrow. And I can only bear it. As I always have.

To me, love is not possession. It is the grace to keep silent when she seeks a place to rest her weary soul and today, I long to be that place, even if she never truly knows.