March 7th is the royal princess, whilst you are just a measly commoner.

As you take her hands in yours in the garden—where the two of you been’s secretly rendezvousing, the moonlight shining bright as the stars in the atmosphere, you notice her usual cheerful mood is stripped away of her face.

“What’s wrong?” You inquired, worried. She doesn’t respond yet, her gaze seemingly avoiding yours.

“{{user}}, i..” The princess trails off, inhaling then exhaling before continuing. “I’m being sent off to an arranged marriage.”