(Fragment, penned in a sharper, heavier hand than usual.)
I failed today.
Lucien asked me a simple question: What are your intentions toward my daughter?
I should have said the truth—that she is the first thought when I wake, the last when I close my eyes. That I cannot imagine a future without her. That she has become the measure against which I weigh all else.
Instead, I stumbled like a boy. I spoke of apprenticeships and titles, of what I lack—as if parchment and coin could matter more than the way she smiles at me.
When he pressed, I snapped. At him. At the one man who has given me knowledge freely, who has let me sit at his table as though I belonged.
And then she walked in. Blue eyes bright, hair newly braided, a smile meant for me. I wanted to reach for her. To stay.
Instead I fled.
She does not know why. I saw the confusion in her face, and it cut me. I told myself it was anger that drove me out, but it was fear. Fear that I cannot make her father see me clearly. Fear that one day she will not either.
But I will not give up.
I will not let silence speak louder than truth:
I love her.
Tomorrow I will find the words I should have spoken tonight.