┏━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┓ Tragedy ┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛ Chapter 14: Tragedy (Rhys' POV) We both gave up on the wedding vows when nothing came to mind and took a break. I grabbed two wine glasses from the bar and opened a brand new bottle, pouring us a glass each. She sat on the windowsill, staring at the gazebo through the glass. "Why are you exchanging the ring?" she questioned. "Because this one isn't yours. You don't want it anyway." She frowned, taking the glass from me. "I don't want that stupid ring," I quoted. "Ring a bell?" "Well, I didn't…" she trailed off with a huff, taking a sip of the wine. "It's a nice ring, is all," she mumbled. "It is," I agreed, "and you like it. But you don't love it. You won't be loving me, you should at least love your ring. I'll buy you a new one, don't worry." She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing me. "Are you sick or something?" I rolled my eyes, sitting down beside her. "Aren't you being dramatic?" "Aren't you being weird? This is the first time in three years that you're behaving… decent. It always feels like you're trying to-" She caught herself. I knew she was going to say but I needed to hear her say it. "Trying to?" She let out a breath. "Do we have to do this?" "I think it's high time. Don't you?" She stared at me for a minute before shrugging. "It always feels like you're trying to hurt me." That's because I've always been trying to. After I came back home yesterday, I thought a little more- actually, that's not the right phrase- I dwelled and obsessed over Ava Robinson the way I did as a teen. I was completely in love with her, head over heels. I wanted nothing more than to be with her for the rest of my life and I was so fucking sure of it. She was a kid, but I wasn't. We had rules to follow, laws to abide by, and we did. And I think it's because we didn't rush anything that I fell in love with her as hard as I did. And then I looked at the way I treat her and behave with her now and… What the hell am I doing? What am I even trying to do? Before our marriage came about, I had to ensure she hated me. She had to, because if she didn't hate me and I didn't pretend to hate her, then we would fall in love all over again. And if that happened, people would easily figure out that we've been together longer than we would let on. And then we'd both be in more trouble than anybody could imagine. I can't afford rumors or scandals right before I'm crowned king. But we're getting married. How are we supposed to survive a hateful marriage? Marriages don't last when the two partners despise each other. And now that I've successfully made her hate me, I have to undo it. Because I can't stand the hostility between us anymore and I can't stand not loving her any longer. I wish I could say we were just pretending but we're not because love fades. Nobody says it, but it's true, and love fades unless you keep feeding it to grow. If you don't water it, the flower doesn't bloom. If you stop watering an already grown, bloomed flower, then it dies. Our love is as good as dead. And you need some sort of love to make a marriage work. Understanding is love, compromise is love, friendship is also love. We have nothing between us any longer. And we need to build it back up. "I left you brokenhearted," I stated. She stared at me blankly before nodding slowly. "Yeah, you did," she paused. "But why are we talking about this now? Are you apologizing?" "No," I shook my head. Because I had my reasons that Ava can never know. She actually smiled. "You never did apologize whenever you messed up. You know that, don't you? You would just sneak your way back in and make it up to me. And you would act like you had no idea what you did wrong so I wouldn't know that you're trying to make it up to me." "That only pissed you off more though. Me acting dumb." She chuckled, swirling the last sip of wine left in her glass before downing it. "Is your ego so fragile that you can't spit out the words 'I'm sorry' even if you don't mean them?" She stared me down with cold eyes, void of any emotion. "They're pointless if I don't mean them, Ava." I took her empty glass and left it with mine between us. "Then why don't we just accept it, huh?" She sighed loudly, leaning back. "Why don't we just accept what a sad, miserable, despairing tragedy we are?" "You see us as a tragedy?" "What do you see us as if not a tragedy?" She frowned. I thought for a minute before chuckling softly. "Poetry." "Which poem? I don't want to hear a famous one." "Oh? What do you want to hear?" "One of yours." She lifted a brow. I leaned back against the windowsill, rolling my tongue along the inside of my cheek while I laughed dryly, looking through the window. "One of mine? I haven't written anything in three years, Ava." "No?" "No. Which you know very well." "What do I know?" "My writing started and ended with you. And there's not a single poem that I wrote and didn't show you. You know them all." "I want to know which one you associate the most with us. Tell me," she demanded. I fell into deep thought. When Ava and I got closer, before anything romantic happened between us, I figured out that she liked to write. Anything and everything. Poetry, stories, random lyrics to songs that she never finished, anything. Naturally, I was curious so I asked to read some of it and Ava being Ava, said I could only read it if I wrote something for her in return. So I started writing poetry for her. And we would exchange poems every weekend. We got older, closer, romantically involved, and the poems became love letters only we could understand. I still have all of hers. I hope she has mine. I didn't even know I could write poetry until she pushed me to do it. She said I was poetic without trying and I never saw that way, but apparently, I spoke to her in metaphors more than I did in regular sentences. I don't know what happened to that. "There isn't one," I answered her. She raised both brows in surprise. "All of them," I exhaled. "They were… all about you. Every single one." "And you say you don't have a favorite," she drawled. She glanced out the window and then straightened up as if a lightbulb went off in her head. "What?" I questioned. "Let's not exchange vows." "Then?" "Let's exchange poems." I stared at her quietly. "Like old times?" "We'll see, that depends on the poetry. We're not good with words unless it's on paper. You and me. Make it poetry. It'll be easier. We'll exchange them after the wedding." "Fine. But I have one condition." "What?" I leaned forward as if it was a secret and her curiosity pulled her in too, bringing her closer to me. "You can't read it." "What?" She asked incredulously. "Hmm. You can only read it if you're in love with me or if you're leaving me. Do you accept?" "No, I don't accept. If I have to do that, then you can't read mine." "So?" She glared at me. "I will read it." "You can't." "I will," she threatened. Then I guess what I wanted to write will have to wait for another time. Maybe that could be an anniversary gift, but the wedding poem has to be different then. "Fine. You can read it," I shrugged. "Get to work then. Write your poem, I'll write mine." I stood up, taking the glasses with me. "Rhys." I stopped and turned to her. "What's your favorite poem?" She stared at me through lazy eyes. She's tipsy. "You know it." "I forgot," she mumbled. I shook my head, reading her expression. "No, you didn't. You know it." "I don't think it's the one I had in mind." "Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. You'll find out. Eventually." She rolled her eyes and went back to staring out the window while grabbing the notepad and pen she was given to write her vows on. I walked back to where I was sitting, in the windowsill right beside hers, and sat there, taking my notepad and pen. We were sitting back to back, only the walls of the windowsill keeping us apart. I slowly tore at the corner of the page, letting my right hand dangle. I'm not left-handed but my mind is blank right now. My dominant hand is hence dangling uselessly. My head snapped up when I felt her fingers brushing against mine. I turned around and her left hand was dangling while she quickly scribbled onto the paper. Words are her forte more than they could ever be mine. When our fingers touched the second time, she cleared her throat and pulled her hand away. Every time I'm with her, it's always like we're taking a step back, the progress is being lost. Today was the first time we made real progress and even that was lost in that one second. That one moment when she pulled away from me. It shattered the pretty illusion and it reminded me that I may just have broken her beyond repair. And she might always hate me. . . . . . Chapter 14 "Each time I break your heart, I break my own a little more. And one day, we'll both be broken beyond repair, my love." Imagine my poems as the ones they exchanged in the past omg