"I wasn't enough," she sobbed. "I thought—just for a moment, with the way he acted towards me—I thought I mattered."
Gwen's eyes burned. "You matter."
"Not to him," Aurelia whispered.
Gwen held her tighter. "That does not make it untrue."
Aurelia cried again until her body no longer obeyed her.
It was not the quiet weeping of restraint or dignity—it was raw, wrenching, uncontrollable. The kind of grief that tore itself free without permission, clawing its way out of her chest until breathing itself became an act of pain.
Her sobs shook her so violently that Gwen feared, for a terrifying moment, that she might break apart in her arms.
Gwen held her tighter.
She did not hush her. Did not tell her to be strong again. Did not speak of duty or crowns or endurance.
She simply held her.
Aurelia's fingers fisted desperately into Gwen's embrace, as though letting go would send her falling into something endless and dark.
