Étienne
The world had become a blur of echoes and soft murmurs, as if reality itself were pulling away from me, slipping between my fingers like grains of sand. I walked the stone halls of our château with hollow steps, the rhythm of my heartbeat no longer in sync with the world around me. Somewhere in the distance, I heard my siblings talking, servants bustling, my father barking orders—but it all felt unreal. The moment the letter arrived, everything changed.
I had been summoned.
It wasn't a request. It was a demand, a decree wrapped in patriotism and sealed with duty.
The draft had come for me.
My father's voice still clung to me like a fog. He had accepted this outcome long ago, perhaps even anticipated it. For him, war was a rite of passage, something that refined a man like fire did steel. But I didn't feel like steel. I felt... unfinished. Incomplete. Like something was being taken from me before I had the chance to truly understand what it was.
Victoire.
The thought of her grounded me, gave shape to the chaos. I hadn't seen her since the early afternoon, and her absence gnawed at me more than I cared to admit. She needed to know before anyone else. Not just because I cared for her, but because some part of me feared that if I didn't say goodbye—really say it—I would regret it forever.
I found her where I had hoped she'd be—the garden that had become her refuge. She stood quietly, her figure silhouetted by moonlight, her dress catching the soft breeze that rustled through the hedges. She didn't turn when I approached, but I knew she heard me. There was something fragile in the way she held herself, like a single word could shatter her.
"Victoire," I said, my voice little more than a whisper.
She turned slowly. Our eyes met. Hers searched mine as though looking for confirmation of the fear already blooming inside her.
"Étienne... what's wrong?"
My throat tightened. I couldn't seem to find the right words, only pieces of them scattered in my chest like broken glass. "They've... drafted me," I managed to say. "I leave for the front."
There was a beat of silence where neither of us breathed. Then her expression shifted—shock, disbelief, and then a tight-lipped resolve.
"No," she said. "Not you. That's not—this isn't fair."
"I know," I said, because there was nothing else to say. "But I have to go."
She took a small step toward me, as though proximity might change the truth. "When?"
"I don't know. Soon. Maybe within the week."
Her hands were clenched at her sides. I wanted to reach for them, to hold her, but the space between us felt sacred, charged. "Your father... he's sending you?"
"He says it's our responsibility. That I'm old enough now. He always knew this day would come."
"And what about what you want?" she asked, voice rising just slightly. "Doesn't that matter?"
"I don't know what I want anymore," I said, eyes fixed on the moon above us. "But I know I had to see you. I had to tell you myself."
Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. She shook her head, blinking rapidly. "I didn't think this war would come for us. Not like this. Not so soon."
"Neither did I," I said. "But I'm not going to hide. If I must go, I'll face it. But I needed you to hear it from me, not from some letter or whispered rumor."
She was trembling now, just slightly, as if the ground beneath her was no longer solid. "Why does everything good have to get taken away?" she murmured. "Why you?"
"I wish I had an answer."
We stood there for a long moment, the silence between us thick with things we wanted to say but couldn't. I reached out finally and took her hand. It was cold, delicate, and when she didn't pull away, I let myself hope for a heartbeat longer.
"I don't want to leave," I said quietly. "But if I do... I want you to know you mattered to me. More than anyone."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Don't say goodbye like that. Please."
"It's not goodbye," I said. "It's a promise. If I can come back, I will. I swear it."
And then she did something I didn't expect—she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. For a second, I just stood there, stunned. But then I held her, as tightly as I dared, trying to memorize the shape of her, the scent of her hair, the quiet sound of her heartbeat.
"I'll be waiting," she whispered. "I don't care how long. I'll wait."
Victoire
I didn't cry.
I wanted to, but I didn't.
Instead, I stood there in the garden with Étienne's arms around me and forced myself to memorize every detail of that moment—his warmth, the tremor in his breath, the way his voice had changed when he said he was leaving.
He had been drafted. He was going to war.
I had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. But hearing it from him made it real in a way that felt cruel. A few days ago, we had been talking about summer plans, books we would read together, gardens we would restore. And now... now there was only uncertainty.
"I don't want you to go," I whispered again, and this time, I didn't try to take it back. "I'm scared."
"I am too," he said, his voice so soft I almost didn't hear it. "But I'm more afraid of leaving without telling you what you mean to me."
I looked up at him. There were a thousand things I wanted to say—questions I wanted answered, feelings I hadn't sorted through yet. But none of it mattered. What mattered was now. Him. Me. The moment.
"What if you don't come back?" I asked, hating myself for even speaking it into existence.
He touched my cheek gently. "Then know that I went thinking of you."
My breath hitched. "You're not allowed to say things like that. Not when you're about to leave me."
"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said, eyes locked on mine. "I just... I need you to know."
"I do."
And I did.
Maybe it was foolish, romantic, even reckless—but I believed him. I believed that if he had any power over it, he'd come back. That somehow, this war wouldn't steal him away from me.
"Promise me something," I said, pulling away just enough to see him clearly.
"Anything."
"Don't become someone else out there. Don't forget who you are."
"I won't," he said. "You'll be the reason I remember."
And then, before the moment could pass, I kissed him. It was soft, unsure, but full of everything I didn't know how to say. He kissed me back like it was the last thing he'd ever be allowed to do.
When we pulled apart, there were tears in my eyes, and I didn't wipe them away. He saw them, and he didn't look away.
We stood there until the wind grew cold and the moon dipped low in the sky. When he finally stepped back, I felt the loss in every inch of my body.
"I'll write," he said.
"You'd better."
And as he turned to leave, I stayed where I was, rooted to the earth like a statue carved by sorrow and hope. Watching him walk away, I wondered if he felt it too—the way the world was splitting in two, and we were being carried away on different tides.
But still, I believed.
Because love, when it is real, survives even the cruelties of war.
And I would wait for him. No matter what.