The ring in your hands is simple; a circle of gold with small, intricate engravings filling the surface. It holds no gems, no glints of light, but it's beautiful in its own way. The metal's warmed by your fingers with how long you've been holding it, but your gaze is far away, set somewhere outside, beyond the panes of glass in the window, and there's no hiding the melancholy that grips you.
Life has lost its shine since you hurt her, and in the weeks, the months since her status as your betrothed was cast away, you have never felt so lonely. It's an effort to get out of bed in the morning, to put a smile on and face the day, but so long as you keep yourself busy, it's easier. You can get through the day.
But tonight, it's nigh on impossible to do anything but think of her. Her smile, the soft brown curls. The voice that haunts your dreams. You miss her more than you think is possible. Its these feelings that make you realise that you truly do love her. Not an image of her, of what she represents, but her. All of her faults and imperfections, though they do not number near as many as your own. You want her back, but you are afraid in the same breath. Afraid of hurting her again, of being less than what she deserves. A girl in the dance corps, an aristocrat. Yours is not a story that should exist, but it is the only story you want.