Page 40 of The Promised Queen
Raja-sa,
I was on a walk some days ago when I discovered what I was told used to be your old room. I hope you don’t mind me intruding, but something about it made me stop. The walls still smell faintly of turpentine and oils, as though you had only just stepped out. They told me you had stopped painting a long time ago. They didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I wandered in and saw sketches abandoned in drawers, brushes hardened with time, unfinished canvases leaning against the wall. They weren’t empty. They were aching—like stories you never let finish. I don’t know why you put it all away, Raja-sa, but I want to tell you something you may not hear often enough: you were… incredible. Every line, every shade I saw was alive. It didn’t feel like art—it felt like breathing. I don’t think one forgets how to breathe. Maybe you just need someone to remind you.
I thought of how much you have given me—your belief, your strength, your words when mine faltered. I don’t know how else to thank you, except by giving this back to you. I hope you pick up the brush again. Even if it is just once. Even if you hate it. Even if no one else ever sees what you create. Because the world deserves to be seen through your eyes again. And perhaps, more importantly, because you deserve it too.
Thank you for believing in me, Raja-sa. It means more than you will ever know.
—Meher
I stare at the page until the letters blur. My throat tightens, an ache spreading through me so sharp it unsettles me. No one… no one has written to me like this before. Her handwriting is neat, but her honesty is what leaves me undone. She doesn’t see the crown when she looks at me. She doesn’t see duty, expectation, or the carefully controlled version of myself that the world knows. She saw a room I had locked away in memory, a part of me I buried, and instead of ignoring it, she brought it back to me.
My chest feels too small for my heart. I sit heavily on the arm of the chair, the paper trembling slightly between my fingers. I tell myself it’s just surprise, just nostalgia, but it isn’t. It’s her. She did this. She thought of me.
I should put the letter down. I should leave it on the table and wait for morning. But the urge to see her crashes through me, undeniable and unrelenting. Before I know it, I’m already walking, the letter folded carefully in my hand like it might burn me if I let go.
Her room is next to mine, but it feels so far away. I hesitate only once, standing at her door, staring at the polished wood as though it holds the answer to everything I’m too afraid to ask. Then I knock.
The door opens after a moment. She’s standing there in a simple night suit, her hair loose, her face free of the careful polish she shows to the world. I can never get over her, like this, like a simple girl, not someone who is made into a queen due to circumstances, just a girl who’s trying to relax after a long day.
And this time… she doesn’t shut the door in my face.
Her eyes widen a fraction, her lips parting as though to speak, but words don’t come. She looks shy, uncertain, but she doesn’t retreat. Instead, she steps aside. The smallest gesture, yet it feels monumental.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice low, rougher than I intend. I step into her room, the air thick with lavender and something warmer, something that feels like home.
She looks away, her fingers twisting together. “For what?”
I hold up the letter. “For this. For… remembering something I forgot.”
Her cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… when I saw your paintings, I couldn’t understand how anyone could walk away from something like that.”
“Still, Thank you, Meher,” I say after a beat of silence.
“Why did you stop, Raja sa?” she whispers, as if uncertain if she should ask it or not. I smile, I would answer anything she asks considering her gift really touched me. I mean, it’s a simple canvas, yes, but to me it's so much more. I haven’t got a single present in years that isn’t wrapped in expectation, fake politeness or some demand.
I sink onto the edge of the sofa in her room, the words heavy on my tongue. “Because it wasn’t meant for me. Not really. When I was twelve, everything changed. I was no longer just Devraj—I was the heir. Every hour of my life was accounted for. Lessons in diplomacy, economics, history, etiquette. Painting was… dismissed. My mother called it a timepass, a distraction. She said kings don’t waste time with colors.”
Meher sits across from me, her gaze steady, unflinching.
“To me, it wasn’t a distraction,” I continue, my voice quiet, almost ashamed. “It was how I expressed myself. But then the crown sat on my head, and I barely had time to think, let alone feel. And when you’re taught for so long that your feelings don’t matter, you start to believe it. You stop reaching for the brush.”
There’s silence between us, but it isn’t empty. It hums with something unspoken. She leans forward slightly, her voice soft but firm. “You mattered, Raja-sa. You still do. And I think that boy who loved to paint—he’s still here, waiting.”
Her words cut through me, undoing walls I’ve carried for years. I exhale slowly, realizing how much I needed to hear that.
I rise, not trusting myself to stay longer, not trusting the weight of everything unsaid. But as I turn to leave, her voice stops me.
“Stay.”
The word is barely a whisper, but it roots me to the floor. I glance back. She’s standing near the bed now, her eyes shy but resolute. My heart kicks against my ribs.
I move closer, slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She doesn’t. Instead, she pulls the blanket back, a silent invitation.
I lie beside her, careful not to overstep, not to crowd her. The bed dips beneath my weight, the air thick with tension and something sweeter, softer. She shifts slightly, and when I open my arm, she tucks herself against me, her head on my chest. My hand hesitates before settling gently against her back.
For the first time in years, I feel the chaos inside me quiet.
