𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 | (𝐆)𝐈-𝐃𝐋𝐄

𝐀 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐲 𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

My first season in London was supposed to be a chance—a chance to marry well, to fulfill what was expected of me. But standing amidst a sea of perfectly postured young ladies and their equally practiced suitors, I felt like an imposter. It was all silk smiles and whispered ambition. And I was tired—tired of preening, of pretending, of being someone I didn’t even recognize.

The ton was a cage lined in velvet. But there was one person who didn't seem to fit either.

Miyeon.

The Duke of Essex’s daughter. Beautiful, composed, and surprisingly… still unmarried. Three seasons, and still no match. In a world where girls like us were groomed to wed by nineteen, Miyeon’s continued presence raised eyebrows—but also intrigued me.

We met during a garden tea, where our mothers pushed us into polite conversation. She smiled faintly, her eyes betraying her boredom, and said under her breath, “Wouldn’t you rather be anywhere else?”

I nearly laughed into my teacup.

That was the first moment I saw her—not the daughter of a duke, not the perfect socialite—but as someone like me. Trapped in all the same ways.

From then on, we kept crossing paths. During balls, we’d drift toward each other like magnets. Not close enough to draw attention, but just near enough to share glances, soft words, the kind of comfort you don’t find in small talk.

She had a way of saying what I was too afraid to. “Do you ever feel like everyone else has rehearsed their parts… and we’ve been given the wrong script?”

I nodded. “Every day.”

Weeks passed. Our encounters became less coincidental. We started finding each other during walks, in libraries, even sitting beside one another during dull dinner parties. What began as an unspoken understanding slowly deepened into something warmer. Safer.

I told her about the pressure from my mother, the fear of disappointing my family. She told me about the loneliness that comes with perfection, the cost of being admired but never truly known.

But then, an engagement proposal came. Not for me—for her.

An Earl’s son. A perfect match on paper. Their families had been whispering about it for months, but hearing it confirmed made something tighten in my chest. I told myself I was just concerned for her, that I didn’t want her to settle.

But the truth gnawed at me.

I was jealous.

And scared. Scared because the way I felt when she smiled, when she touched my hand—those feelings weren’t just friendly. They were dangerous. Forbidden.

One afternoon, I found her tucked away in the orangery, fingers tracing the rim of her tea cup, eyes distant.

“Is it true?” I asked.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “They want it to be.”

“And you?”

Miyeon was quiet for a long time. Then: “I’m tired of pretending. Of smiling and saying the right things.” She looked at me. “But I’m more afraid of losing you.”

The air between us stilled.

I wanted to reach for her. I wanted to say something brave, something like: stay for me. But I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Instead, we stood there, not touching, not speaking, hearts pounding with all the things we couldn’t say.

Over the weeks that followed, I pulled away. Not cruelly. Just carefully. I smiled less. Stood farther away. It hurt every time. But I thought distance would protect us both.

Miyeon didn’t chase me. But she didn’t stop showing up either.

Then, the Earl’s proposal came. In the middle of a ball. A dramatic gesture. All eyes on her.

She hesitated.

And then, quietly, with perfect grace, she declined.

The room gasped.

I couldn’t move.

Later that night, I found her in the rose garden, arms wrapped around herself, head tilted toward the moonlight.

“I’m not sorry,” she said, before I could say anything.

“Why?”

“Because I’d rather be alone… than live a life that isn’t mine.” Her voice broke. “But I’m not sure I have the strength to keep doing this alone.”

I stepped closer. “You’re not alone.”

She turned to me, eyes shining.

This time, I reached for her hand.

“I don’t know what comes next,” I whispered. “But I want to figure it out with you.”

Miyeon smiled, tearful but sure. “Then let’s start with this moment. Just you and me.”

And so we did.

We didn’t run away that night. There were no grand declarations in front of crowds. Just soft glances across ballrooms, quiet letters passed between gloved hands, moments stolen behind garden hedges.

It took months—long, aching months—for us to build something solid out of the fragments we were allowed. And even longer before we spoke the word “love” out loud.

But we got there. Slowly. Honestly.

In a world where every part of us was meant to be hidden, we found a way to be seen—by each other.

And somehow, that was enough.

Maybe even everything.