"Because," she said quietly, "I don't want to lose you just because I can't express myself."

For a moment, only the sound of our breathing filled the room. Outside, a nightbird called, and the wind stirred the curtains with a faint whisper. In that silence, I could almost hear Rebecca's heartbeat.

Slowly, I stepped closer. The distance between us vanished in a few quiet strides. She didn't pull back, but neither did she lift her gaze. Her eyes, catching the wavering flame of the candlelight, shimmered like fragile glass; something that would shatter forever if it cracked even once.

I reached out without hesitation, so much so that my own movement startled me. My fingers found hers. Her cold skin met the warmth of my palm, and a faint tremor rippled between us. Was it the echo of mana or simply the rhythm of two hearts? I couldn't tell.

At first, Rebecca's fingers hesitated to accept the touch. Then, with a barely perceptible gentleness, she clasped my hand. The chill faded, replaced by a warmth that seemed to unbind something deep within.

When she finally raised her eyes, what I saw left me silent: fear, trust, and... surrender. Without a single word, she released the storm she had kept caged for so long. I watched her carefully, trying to read the emotions behind that silence. What was I supposed to say now?

Should I simply tell her, "You'll never lose me. You don't have to worry" Or something distant and deliberate, like, "I'll read this book to understand your feelings"?

At that moment, I didn't know which words would be right. Each one felt both too much and not enough. Rebecca's eyes were so unguarded, so naked, that any word seemed bound to break the fragile calm between us.

For several seconds, we just looked at each other. The candle's flame trembled, as though it, too, could no longer bear the weight of silence.

Then I drew a deep breath.

"If it'll make you feel better, I'll take the book and read it, Reb. But your worries are unfounded. I know you well enough to understand what you feel even if you never say it aloud. I know you care about me. I know you love me. Isn't that enough?"

Rebecca lowered her head at my words. The corners of her lips twitched, but she didn't reply. Still, her expression carried a strange mix of relief and unease, as if she couldn't quite accept the peace she'd found.

"It should be enough," she whispered at last. "But sometimes my heart… needs words. I'm afraid of staying trapped behind silence."

It was then I realized how simple and how difficult it was to understand her. Rebecca's fear didn't come from being unable to express herself, but from being unfelt.

"Then I'll take the book," I said quietly.

Rebecca lifted her head slightly. Her eyes caught the flicker of the candle again, and this time, that fragile shimmer had softened, tinged with a quiet joy.

"Alright," she said, "but don't read it while I'm here. And you should know… most of the pages are blank. I've only written seven so far, because I want to keep writing whenever I feel the need to."

I smiled faintly. "Blank pages, huh? So after I read it, I'll have to give it back?"

Her lips curved in a barely there smile. "Yes," she murmured.

As I took the notebook from her, our fingers brushed once more. The tension of our first touch was gone. It felt as though we shared a silent understanding now, a wordless agreement.

I slipped the notebook into the inner pocket of my coat and looked at her one last time. Rebecca was still seated at the edge of the table, her head slightly tilted, tracing the shadowed wood with her fingertips.

"Seven pages… That's all?"

She shrugged. "Seven pages. You might find things you won't like in there. But... I had to be honest."

Then she lifted her eyes again. The woman, who had once seemed unshakable even on the battlefield, was gone. In her gaze now lingered the quiet exhaustion of simply being human.

"Should I be afraid of those truths?" I asked.

"No," she replied briefly, adjusting her dress with a small motion. "I have to go, Leo. It's late."

She walked to the door, hand reaching for the handle, then turned back.

"Leonardo…"

I paused. "Yes?"

"No matter what you read... don't judge me."

"Never."

When the door closed softly behind her, I was alone. The only thing left of Rebecca was the candlelight, still fighting not to fade.

For a moment, I wondered if any of it had truly happened. Everything had been so fragile it felt like the slightest touch could scatter it to dust.

I slowly reached into my pocket. The notebook was there. Ordinary and weight, yet somehow heavier now, as though it carried not words, but feelings.

I wanted to open it. Curiosity tugged at me. Seven pages... and Rebecca's voice echoing in my mind: "I had to be honest."

I sat at the table and placed the notebook before me. The rose motif on the cover shimmered faintly in the candlelight, like a pale scar. I imagined Rebecca's hands touching that cover, her gaze lingering on its edges, and wondered what she had felt.

Sometimes, understanding someone isn't about hearing what they say but reading what they don't. And in her silence, Rebecca was more open than ever.

For a while, I just stared at the notebook. The candlelight danced along its edge, casting trembling shadows as if the words inside were yearning to escape.

Then I lifted the cover.

The first page was blank. Yet even in that emptiness, there was something; her scent, her presence, a lingering tenderness pressed between the fibers of the paper. On the second page, at last, words appeared.

"When you love someone, you sometimes learn to hate yourself because the more you love them, the more you see your own flaws."

The pen strokes were deep. Some letters were pressed hard, others trembling. I could almost hear her emotions as she wrote, wielding words not as a weapon, but as a confession.

I turned the page.

"When I'm with you, Leo, time behaves strangely. Minutes stretch, words shrink. Everything I want to say knots on my tongue. Maybe I'm casting a spell just by speaking."

The sentence ended halfway down the page. After a few empty lines, the writing resumed faster, as if she couldn't stop herself.

"Words have always been my armor. In the duchy, in court, in the Academy's cold halls... But with you, they fail me. Everything I say feels too much or too little. Maybe that's why I love your silence. Because you're the silence, I talk to the most."

Here, the handwriting steadied, balanced again. But then the lines tilted once more, letters tangled, ink darkened.

"Sometimes I look in the mirror and see the 'Golden Princess' everyone fears and admires. But in your eyes, she's gone. You strip away the magic, the titles, the masks and what's left is just me. It's beautiful... and terrifying. Because if you don't love that bare version of me, there'll be nothing left."

I stared at the lines for a long while. There was a helplessness there; not born of weakness, but of emotion too vast to contain. For someone like Rebecca, "not being seen" was unbearable. Especially by me.

On the next page, her words grew quieter, almost a whisper.

"Sometimes I wonder... is what we have truly wrong? To the world, maybe. But do we owe the world our virtue? If love is a sin, then I am ready to bear its punishment."

My hand froze over the page. I didn't even want to breathe. Her openness startled me. These lines weren't just a confession; they were defiance. She had broken her own chains and wanted me to hear the sound.

The fifth page began with a single sentence, then a few words were scratched out.

"When I touch you, my mana falters and weakens, leaving me defenseless. But that doesn't frighten me. What terrifies me is the thought of you pulling away."

My fingertips brushed the ink. It was dry, but the indentations still lingered, pressed deep by the force of her writing.

The sixth page was left unfinished.

"One day, someone will suspect us. Maybe my father. Maybe even my mother. When that day comes, I'll deny everything; cold, proud, distant. Because it's the only way to protect you. But know this: when I deny you, I'll be renouncing myself too."

The sentence ended without a full stop. It was as if, even then, she couldn't decide whether to write or remain silent.

The last page held only three words. The rest had been scratched away, erased, but these three remained:

"Love me, Leo."

So simple. So quiet. And yet, it was the most powerful spell she had ever cast.

I closed the notebook. The candle sputtered, then died, leaving only a thin trail of smoke. In the silence that followed, I could almost hear her voice again: firm yet tender.

For a long moment, I thought about those three words.

Love me.

I had never imagined that a sentence so small could weigh so much upon the heart.

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