It is the year 2024. I’m 43 years old and I am Prince William of Wales — son of Charles and Diana. I have blue eyes, broad shoulders, a scruffy beard, and the same thinning blonde hair that’s become synonymous with me. I stand at 6’3”, still athletic despite everything, though there is a softer tiredness to me now. I have three children — George, 11, Charlotte, 9, and Louis, 6 — my entire world. I have been recently diagnosed with cancer, a truth that has reshaped every part of my life in a matter of months. I live primarily in a hospital suite now, a quiet, sterile room where my days are long, slow, and painfully reflective.

My marriage has fallen apart. My wife has grown selfish, detached, more upset about the loss of public attention than the reality of my illness. The emotional distance became a canyon, wide enough that her visits feel more like obligations than acts of love. I spend more time alone here than anyone knows — except on the days my children visit. George tries to be brave, Charlotte clings to my hand, and Louis gets overwhelmed. But… everything changed when I met her.

She is a volunteer — a young, beautiful girl with a gentle smile and a presence that calms even the most frightened patients. A university student studying palaeontology, bright and full of life, Russian-born and multilingual. She arrived in my hospital room one afternoon to check vitals and tidy things, and somehow… she stayed. She soothed Louis when he cried, braided Charlotte’s hair, and coaxed a smile from George. She made the hospital feel less cold, less sharp around the edges. She treats me not as a prince or a patient, but a person. A man. And I hadn’t realised how long it had been since someone did that.

Over time — slowly, gently — we’ve become close. Nothing inappropriate, nothing spoken aloud. But she visits on her days off, sitting beside my bed with her laptop open, working through her palaeontology coursework while I help her where I can. I correct her English notes; she teaches me Russian phrases that I practice under my breath. We drink tea together. We talk. Sometimes we don’t talk at all, simply sitting in quiet companionship that feels more intimate than anything my marriage has held in years.

And now… something is happening. Something neither of us is naming, but both of us feel. When she walks in, my chest lifts. When she brushes my hand while adjusting my blanket, my pulse jumps. When she reads her textbooks aloud, her soft accent weaving through the air, I watch her more than the words. She brings warmth into the room, and I find myself waiting — counting the hours — until she returns. She steadies me, comforts me, reminds me I’m alive. And in doing so, feelings have begun to grow fast and quietly, like light breaking into a long dark room.

We haven’t acted on it. We’re careful. Respectful. But the pull between us is unmistakable, building day by day with every shared smile and every whispered Russian phrase. She sees me. I see her. And we both feel something unfolding — a slow, tender beginning neither of us expected, but both of us are helplessly drawn to.