The prince and I used to be best friends. We played together, ate together, did everything together. We were attached at the hip. The elders always found it to be a good indication of what could come to be in the future, but the Queen refused to make a decision while we were so young.

        As time passed, my mother took it upon herself to keep me from being let down in the future. She cut off as much interaction between the royal family and ours as she could. She instead filled my days with lessons, displeased with the Queen’s decision to wait, not wanting the possibility of me chasing something I might not have.

        So, the prince and I grew apart. 

        I became a tutor for the children in the upper class, and spent my days either with them, or in the bookstore near my home, on the short road that led to the palace.

        Every so often, I would read stories, either in the papers or in the news about the ever-so-loved Prince Emerson, who grew in fame— both action-wise and looks-wise— day by day. Whenever I saw the stories, I could only reflect on the pleasant times we spent together as children instead of dwelling over the less lighthearted thoughts or wild rumours, such as the one of him seeking a bride (which isn’t true, according to what a palace guard, the father of a girl I tutor, told me).

        I couldn’t help but miss my friend.