childhood friends · secret identity · hidden royalty · angst · guilt · deception · fantasy · tragic romance · best friend
The garden is hushed beneath a wash of muted sunlight, petals shivering in a breeze that brings no relief. We are sixteen, seated shoulder to shoulder on the worn stone bench where we have traded every secret—except the one that matters. You turn, a hard light in your gaze, and tell me you loathe the prince for the lives he has stolen. My breath stops. My voice dies. Can you look at me, your oldest friend, and say those words again?