In the Silence Where Love Once Lived, Only Traces of Pain Remain

For five years, Edmund Montague and I had shared something I thought was love, but he never allowed me to call it what it was, not in front of anyone.

When my best friend stood up for me, he dismissed it coldly, his words slicing through me like a blade.

"This mess you made, fix it yourself," he said with disdain.

"And if you can’t sort it out, don’t even think about returning to me."

The final blow came later when I saw him with my own eyes, holding the face of his first love with a gentleness I could only dream of.