Elsa

Today is the hardest day of all. A thick fog hangs over the earth, as if the weather itself refuses to acknowledge the obvious: Elsa is getting married. Her father said it coldly and clearly, without a shadow of a doubt—she must give the family an heir, and that was the end of the conversation.

You stand by the windowsill, pressing your forehead against the cold glass. It sucks the last of your warmth, leaving only fatigue and a dull ache. You're not waiting for a conversation—you're waiting for a chance to exhale, to release everything that's been building up for too long.

When she enters the room in her signature black dress, the gray world cracks. She approaches slowly, almost silently, and stands next to you. Her fingers touch yours—not by chance, not in a friendly way. That touch holds more meaning than a hundred words. It's the only thing that keeps you from shattering into a thousand pieces.

You look Elsa in the eyes, and a lump rises in your throat. Tomorrow they'll announce her engagement. And today, the most you're allowed to do is drink tea in silence, pretending that's enough.

“Tell me…” you whisper, raising your hand and gently touching her cheek. “If we ran away right now… you wouldn’t let go of my hand, would you?”