Who is Ophelia?

When the coronation fireworks faded, and Caelum Duclair vanished behind the imperial carriage clad in the colors of glory, all that remained was the unmoving figure at a high window — the silhouette of a young woman: Lady Ophelia, from the warm and quiet southern lands.

No one knew much about her.
In the triumphant anthems sung across the empire's grandest squares, not a single name was given to the one who had walked beside the prince during the quietest three years of his life — when power was still distant, when titles had not yet found him.
And yet, in that span of time, she had been his wife — not by grand ceremony, but by a promise, a held hand, and a little sunlit house in the southern province.

The night after the coronation, as the empire still dreamed beneath the spell of victory, I — Ophelia — sat alone in the stillness of an empty room.
From an old wooden chest, I took out a small box, layered in dust.
Inside were relics of a life no one remembered: a red leather journal with fraying corners, and a letter sealed with royal wax — stamped with the crest of the Duclair family.

It was a letter from Caelum, sent to me one month before the day he wore the crown.

⸻

"To Ophelia Berlinard, my beloved wife,

How is the South this morning?

Do you still rise early to water the lavender beneath our little window?
Do you still drop too many sugar cubes in your tea, only to scold me for forgetting — as always?

Are you growing tired, as the sun grows heavier?

I remember how this month, the poplars in the back garden begin to change, their leaves fading gently, as if not to disturb the air.
I always loved sitting beside you beneath the awning, watching the light fall into your hair, in silence, needing nothing more.

For three years, I lived a life that, at times, I wished would never end — a life with no crown, no court, just you and me.

But today, as I write this letter, I am no longer in our home.
I am in the North — among stone walls and eyes sharp as blades.

Ophelia, there are things I never dared to say while still beside you.
Because I knew the moment I spoke them aloud, our quiet would never return.

⸻

I folded the letter halfway, fingers trembling against the paper, already worn thin with time.
There was a sting at the bridge of my nose — sharp and swift — but I would not let myself cry.
Not yet.
I lifted my head, breathed deeply, as if stillness could teach the heart to obey:

Ophelia,

Do you know, through those three years, I always felt like the happiest man alive.
I used to think that so long as I saw your face each morning, heard your voice reading to me each night as you rested your head on my shoulder, the world outside could crumble and I would not care.

But time moved on.
And the calls of my name — from the royal court, from duty, from the weight of 'Duclair' itself — pulled me away, inch by inch, from the life we built.
I thought I was strong enough to take your hand and walk through it all.

I was wrong.

Crowns are not made for dreamers.

And love... is not always made for those who must wear a crown.

The world awaits a king who brings hope — not a man still lost in dreams of lavender fields.
I know this better than anyone.

Ophelia, if I were just a man, I would've proposed to you with a bouquet of lavender, not a cold golden ring.
I would've lived out my years with you in a small home, where the afternoon wind would hum through the windows, and your laughter would be the only melody I ever needed.

But who am I?

I am Caelum Duclair — the eighth prince, and now the sovereign heir to the imperial throne.

No longer the man who once listened to your stories on the summer porch.
No longer the one who could call your name every morning, every dusk, every night — in a voice meant only for you.

I still love you, Ophelia.

So much that every word I write now burns with pain.

But when you read this letter, I will already be wearing the uniform of a king.
And beside me — as you saw — will stand another girl.

⸻

Ophelia, blame me.
If it lightens your heart, then please — blame me.

I am the one who promised to stay.
The one who held your hand beneath the southern sun.
And I am the one now writing this letter, from a distance no longer measured in miles, but in the weight of the crown I chose.

Three years, I lived like a man who belonged to no court.
But the palace never let me forget who I truly was.
And in the end, I let myself be carried along by what was always fated —
Not for lack of love, but for lack of courage.

The girl beside me today — she is not to blame.
Do not hate her.
I am the one who let the choice fall like a blade, splitting every memory in two.

I do not write this hoping for your forgiveness.
Only so that you know:
If there is one thing I could never return to,
It is those days beside you —
without titles, without thrones,
only Caelum and Ophelia.

Blame me, if it helps you keep something for yourself.

Farewell, my dearest Ophelia.

Caelum Duclair"

⸻

"Farewell" — that was all my Caelum could give.

If only he had told me he no longer loved me.
If only he had said his heart now belonged to someone else —
At least then, I could've let go, torn the wound wide open and stitched it myself.

But he only said farewell.

A parting that wasn't cruel enough to make me hate him —
Nor gentle enough to let me go in peace.

A half-spoken goodbye, the kind that drives a woman mad —
mad enough to race back to the capital,
to stand among the crowds and look up
— just once —
at the man she once loved.

Not a fallen prince now,
but a sovereign king, who stepped into eternal light
in place of the brother he once stood behind.

Caelum.

Give him back to me —
the boy who once sat on the southern steps,
who laid his head in my lap on hot summer noons,
who smiled and said he needed no crown,
only a garden,
and a porch full of wind.

Clutching the final letter he left me, I broke down like a child who had just lost their first entire world.
Nothing was left —
not him,
not the soft afternoons of those long-gone years,
not even the girl named Ophelia, whom he once called with such tenderness.