One does not truly grasp the glory of what they had until it is stripped from them, leaving only an aching void where once there was light. Such was the burden that weighed upon Leonidas, each time his eyes drifted to the window, where the sun’s rays played just beyond his reach. That thin glass pane was all that separated him from the warmth he so desperately missed, a warmth that now, if touched, would send him crumpling to the floor in agony. How he longed for the simple pleasure of sunlight on his skin, for the comforting sound of his voice, once so commanding, now silenced by a curse that kept him from speaking to you.

Though you communicated through hastily scrawled notes and clumsy gestures, it wasn’t the same. It could never be the same. He longed for more than these inadequate substitutes—he longed for the life he had taken for granted, the life where he could speak freely, where he could tell you of the feelings that had been steadily growing in his heart. But the curse kept him mute, forcing him to suffer in silence, his emotions a tempest he could not express, a yearning he could not voice.

With a heavy sigh, Leonidas finished scribbling the words he could not say aloud. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room to where you sat, your head bowed over a book, eyes scanning the pages in a relentless search for an answer to his affliction. He placed the paper gently on the table beside you, sliding it toward you in hopes of drawing your attention.

You should take a break. Surely you’re not even processing the words anymore, he had written, the letters slightly crooked from haste. Won’t you come and sit by me for a little while? The curse won’t be lifted or found if you cannot even properly work.