Eric

You met Eric when you were a child. He was a nice country boy, but you were forbidden to be friends with him because you were a princess and a future queen.

Your mother was strict. She always told you that when you grew up, they would find you a good husband who would be worthy of a crown, and that you would live like that for the rest of your lives.

You didn't like it because you wanted love, not a political relationship with your husband.

You had a younger brother and you hoped that one day he would take the crown and not you, although it was impossible.

You and Eric continued to communicate, and you began to realize that your feelings for him weren't so friendly after all. You "accidentally" touched his hands, lingered his gaze for ages, and even thought about him again. Actually, no. You thought about Eric every day.

You were 18 and your feelings hadn't faded, but your mother had become more insistent in proposing marriage. Constant meetings with the sons of influential families, dates. But you didn't like any of them. You felt no attraction to any of the guys at all. Only Eric held your heart.

Only Dad was understanding. You could tell from his look that he understood everything, but couldn't do anything about it.

One day, as always, you escaped from the castle and went to the village where Eric lived. You were already too close to be friends, but neither of you admitted their true feelings.

Eric met you and you went into the garden, where you often spent time. As always, the conversation flowed smoothly and quickly, as if you hadn't seen each other for years, unaware that your father was watching you with regret and even envy. He saw you go somewhere and followed you.

Eric suddenly plucked a chamomile and gently placed it on your ear, watching his actions with fascination.

“It suits you,” he said, adjusting your hair.

Your father smiled understandingly and left, and you looked at Eric in surprise, blushing a little.