Page 64 of Broken Desires
“That can be arranged,” I reply, a small wave of relief washing over me at her willingness to extend an olive branch.
Her next words are gentle, filled with sincerity. “I only want your happiness, son. Truly, I do.”
“I know that, Mother.” In response, I gather the university pamphlets I’ve been collecting, a tangible sign of the life I’m hoping Nessa and I can build together here.
As we leave the library, I send a quick message to Nessa, asking where she is. The reply comes swiftly—she’s on the panoramic roof. I can’t help but smile, imagining her up there, possibly falling even more in love with Copenhagen from that breathtaking vantage point. It feels like another sign that we’re moving in the right direction.
My steps quicken with anticipation as I head toward the roof, eager to share the moment with her. To talk about our future. Yet, as I approach, I spot her sitting alone on a bench, and the enthusiasm dims slightly at the edge of my heart. The expression on her face isn’t one of awe or contentment but resignation.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I sit down next to her, trying to read the emotions playing across her face.
She nods, a certain firmness in her posture. “Yes, I’ve made my decision.”
Part of me relaxes, assuming she’s about to commit to our shared future, a decision I know wasn’t easy. I’m already thinking of ways to support her, to make sure she feels at home here. “This is great. I actually have this fold?—”
“I’m going home,” she interrupts, her voice steady.
Confusion takes hold, and I can’t help but think I’ve misunderstood. “Yes, tomorrow,” I echo, thinking of the temporary, the immediate.
The look she gives me is filled with sorrow and resolve. “And I’m not coming back.”
The words knock the breath out of me. “You’re— What? Why?” Disbelief laces my voice. “But you love me.”
“I do.” The simplicity of her affirmation makes it all the more devastating.
“What happened yesterday…” I start, my mind racing, trying to find a foothold in the quicksand this conversation has become.
“Was the perfect goodbye,” she finishes for me. “Listen, Alexander, this”—she gestures to the city spread out before us—“is not a life for me. I wasn’t made for this.”
I reach for her hand, desperate to bridge the gap widening between us. “But you can learn; you’re perfect for me.”
Her next words are a quiet refusal. “Probably, but I don’t want to.” Gently, she pulls her hand away. “I’ve just got my freedom back from the oppressive family I have. I’m not ready to dive into another world filled with rules. I want to enjoy my freedom.”
The words pierce through me, each one a reminder of the vast gap between our worlds—a gap I had hoped love could bridge. I find myself rubbing my chest as if I could somehow ease the acute ache spreading through it. “I love you,” I confess again, the words heavy with a mix of desperation and truth.
Her expression twists, mirroring the turmoil I feel. It’s clear this decision is tearing at her too.
“Did something happen? Did anyone say something to make you feel this way?” I’m searching for anything, a reason outside of us that might be swaying her decision.
She simply shakes her head, her resolve firm. “No, it’s just me being honest with myself.”
A heavy sigh escapes me as I lower my gaze, feeling utterly defeated. Understanding her doesn’t make accepting her decision any easier. How can I argue for her to embrace a life I’ve often struggled with myself? In the end, love isn’t about holding someone so tight they can’t choose freedom.
Reluctantly, I stand, my movements rigid with the effort of keeping myself composed. “Very well. If that’s how you truly feel.” The question hangs in the air between us, unspoken but palpable—can she see the heartbreak she’s causing?
Her affirmation is quiet but final. “It is.”
“Your leaving won’t change how I feel about you. It doesn’t change anything,” I confess, though the words taste like ash.
She rises, too, a gesture that feels like the closing of a book. “And yet it needs to,” she says before coming close enough to kiss my cheek—a touch so light yet filled with shared grief.
Then, she turns and walks away, leaving the roof, the palace, and my life, but never my heart. Her departure carves a Nessa-shaped void that no duty, no responsibility, can ever fill.
“You seem strangely okay today,” Henrick notes, his voice laced with curious concern as we look over documents detailing the various private schools he might attend.
Caught off guard, I pause, pen in hand, unsure how to navigate his probing. “What do you mean?” I ask, hoping to deflect.
He rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “Come on. Last night, you were all doom and gloom, looping that depressing song like there’s no tomorrow. Like a good little emo.”