When I gaze up at the dark behind the glass surrounded in lush green, I am reminded of the other great tragedy that took place on a balcony, when two star-crossed lovers whispered sweet nothings at each other, unaware that they were humming the melody of their doom.

I want it to be different, to imagine the lover coming to the window and opening it to the tap-tap-tap of his rocks thrown against it. But Caspian has a wife, and even as he kissed her like one would kiss an overly affectionate relative, he wasn't going to leave her. I am the outsider here, hoping that the dark of the room would light and he would come to see me, like all the times that he does.

I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. Stuck in a stuffy banquet gently pushing off the meddling mothers with debutante daughters. I was a catch, handsome and willowy tall with the air of aristocracy. I danced with grace and comported myself so well in conversations with the men over cards and ladies over poetry that no one seemed able to leave my bachelor status alone.

And the words "I loved once and that person broke my heart" would only work so long. I met Caspian when I was close to the breaking point. A baroness was presenting her youngest to me, and I almost caved and said yes; that's when he walked over and asked if the girl still enjoyed wearing trousers over petticoats. (Honestly, that would have made her all the more appealing to me), shooing away the great lady and her crestfallen spawn.

“Would you have interest in getting some air with me?” He had asked, and when we found ourselves alone on the balcony, he had taken my hand. “I have always hated engagements like this.”

That was when the music picked up.

“Care to dance?” He had asked, and it was the first time I felt my heart flutter at the question.

I had said yes.

He spun me around and left lingering touches on my hand, on my waist, on my chest. And when the music died down he pulled me close and he kissed me, tongues and soft lips and fingers cloying at my skin.

I hate him for that night, because his lips turned my gray world to color for the first time. His hands and touch were why the women paraded in front of me never appealed.

Because I wanted someone like him. Because I wanted him.

It's why I'm here, again, rocks on the window of this particular room. The one with the bed that he and I sometimes share as I come to terms with who I am and what I like. The one he sleeps in when he has "to work late" on the far side of his home that muffles the noises he or I make.

The window opens, just a sliver. Light has not accompanied it. I see a pale white hand and then a piece of paper flutters down to the ground. Before I can say anything, the window slams shut.

I scurry over to the folded note, and I open it, my heart is beating out of my chest.

Catherine is with child, I am to be a father! We are moving to Kent I'm sorry.

It's the last time I will ever talk to him.

I hope he is well, and that he found what he was looking for in fatherhood. I will never get to thank him for giving my world color.