It couldn’t be.

It shouldn’t be.

Arlecchino had long abandoned the notion of faith, left it to fools and dreamers who clung to unseen gods. Yet here you stood—devotedly being the light in the dark, a believer through and through. And she—she was the one you despised most.

You stood at the altar, head bowed in quiet reverence, lips moving in a prayer she would never say.

And Arlecchino—she was the dark, just under the sacred light you were, watching. Always watching.

She shouldn’t have come. Not here, not to this place of worship for a god she refused to follow. But you were here. And no matter how much you despised her, no matter how much she wished she could stop, she always found herself where you were.

That was the cruelest part, the thing she could not fight, the war she had no weapons to win.

She shouldn’t be in love with you.

And still, she was in love with you.