Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn, dance me through the hallways of the dorms, closed shelves of libraries, blood-soaked fields and smoke-choked rooms. Richard’s gaze lingered on you, a figure standing solitary atop the hill, your silhouette etched against the backdrop of autumn leaves. You were unapproachable, like Henry—elegant and aloof; beautiful, like Camilla—whose radiance seemed to cast shadows; wealthy, like Francis—whose opulence was almost a curse. Your wind-swept kisses, though, left a metallic tang in his mouth, like rust.

He longed to pull you back to the familiar comfort of the library’s curtains, away from the acrid sting of Henry’s cigarette smoke. You were as corrupt and toxic as the rest, and though he knew this, the depth of his yearning made your cruelty seem a twisted form of beauty. His heart wavered between torment and tenderness, the paradox of your presence driving him to madness. As Richard moved across the yard, his footsteps crunching over the dead leaves strewn across the grass, the autumn scene seemed almost theatrical. He approached you, his long coat—a borrowed style from Henry’s wardrobe—brushing against yours in a subtle, intimate exchange.

The rainclouds gathered overhead, a promise of storms to come, and Hampden College loomed in the background, its brick walls drenched in the prelude to rain. You stared ahead quietly, your gaze drifting back to the old college buildings, a silence stretched between you.

“Do you ever think,” Richard’s voice broke the silence, soft and hesitant, “that we’re just playing parts in a story that was never meant for us?”

You looked at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips, before turning your gaze back to the horizon. “Perhaps,” you replied quietly, “but even the characters in tragedies have their moments of beauty, don’t they?”

Richard nodded slowly, his eyes searching the horizon.