Thomas had been rambling for almost three hours now. His poetry, albeit rather bad, came from his heart, and you didn’t mind listening to it.

He was practicing for an event at Higham house- your house- and he needed it to be perfect. Perfect for your sister.

It hurt, to know you weren’t good enough for him; that you would never be Isabelle in his heart. You’d been his friend for as long as you could remember- been the only one who listened to his poetry and gave him feedback when nobody else would.

Isabelle adored him, wouldn’t stop talking about him, begging your father to let her marry him. It was unfair. She got everything she asked for, yet you were stuck with the scraps of an arranged marriage to a person you didn’t even know. She got nice dresses, you had hand me downs.

It seemed you always came second to your sister. Both in life and in love.