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Chapter 7
Deciding this was the perfect opportunity to learn more about the things Martin liked, I gently steered the conversation in that direction.
“So, you really like fountain pens?”
“Y-Yeah. They’re my hobby.”
His fingers fidgeted nervously as he added,
“C-Copying text, I mean.”
I blinked in surprise.
“That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Why? Was there some reason you got into it?”
At my question, Martin pressed his palms together and answered shyly.
“Well… when I’m writing, I stop thinking about everything else.”
His gaze lowered.
“And when I copy the words of great people… their quotes and sayings…”
He hesitated.
“…it makes me feel like maybe I could become someone great too.”
For a moment, I simply stared at him.
His answer revealed more than he probably intended.
It showed me how Martin saw himself.
Perhaps sensing my silence, he let out a bitter laugh.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?”
His voice was quiet.
“A stuttering loser… a kid everyone avoids…”
The corners of his lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile.
“What business do I have dreaming about becoming someone great?”
“Martin.”
My voice came out sharper than intended.
The atmosphere inside the carriage froze instantly.
Even Bill, who had been discreetly observing us through the rearview mirror, stiffened.
Martin glanced at me nervously.
Everyone was suddenly watching my reaction.
“Martin, I…”
And then my mind went blank.
Pathetic.
I had never been particularly good at comforting people.
There were so many things I wanted to say.
So many.
But none of them would organize themselves into words.
I wanted to tell him that I’d never once thought of him that way.
Not even for a second.
The silence stretched on.
Eventually, Martin offered me a small smile and turned his gaze back toward the window.
After that, neither of us spoke.
The quiet remained until the carriage reached his destination.
The only words exchanged were simple farewells.
See you tomorrow.
Nothing more.
* * *
“You idiot. Why couldn’t you just say it?”
Face buried in my pillow, I let out a muffled scream.
A startled maid peeked into the room, took one look at me, and wisely retreated.
At the moment, I couldn’t care less.
All I could think about was Martin.
“What am I supposed to do…?”
Rolling onto my back, I stared at the ceiling.
How could I make him understand that I genuinely cared about him?
How could I convince him that he mattered?
“I don’t know how deep his wounds are,” I muttered.
“That’s why it’s so hard to say anything. If I choose the wrong words…”
I bit my lip.
I might hurt him.
The thought alone made my chest tighten.
I didn’t want to drift apart from Martin.
He was the first friend I’d made since arriving in this world.
More than that—
His very existence had become one of the reasons I wanted to keep living here.
I was still writhing dramatically beneath my blanket when a knock sounded at the door.
Then came a familiar voice.
“My lady, it’s Lucas. May I come in?”
Lucas explained that he’d brought dessert and was waiting for permission to enter.
I answered in a thoroughly depressed tone.
“…You can come in.”
The door opened.
Usually the maids handled this sort of thing, so the fact that Lucas had come personally meant he’d probably heard from them that I was feeling down.
“My lady, you seemed to enjoy the chocolate tart so much, so I brought some today. The chef claims it’s his masterpiece.”
A weak smile tugged at my lips.
Unable to resist Lucas’s gentle insistence, I finally dragged myself over to the tea table.
The moment I lifted the silver cloche, a sweet aroma drifted upward.
“Go on,” Lucas encouraged.
“Have a taste. I’m sure you’ll feel better.”
“Do I really look that miserable?”
Lucas glanced away awkwardly before smiling.
“The maids have been terribly worried about you. Every conversation eventually becomes a discussion about Lady Lindsey. I had no choice but to come see you myself.”
I took a bite of the tart.
“…It’s good.”
It really was.
But…
Not as good as Martin’s.
Sorry, Chef.
Lucas beamed as though he had personally baked it.
“See? I told you. There isn’t a cook anywhere nearby who can rival ours.”
I offered him a small smile before taking a sip of milk.
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, I spoke.
“Lucas… I made a friend.”
“Master Martin? The young gentleman Bill escorted home today?”
“You already know?”
Apparently Bill had filled him in on the basics.
Lucas knelt beside my chair so our eyes were level.
“Did something happen?”
I stared down at my tart.
“As Bill probably mentioned, Martin is… different from the other students.”
I paused.
“But none of that matters to me. I like him anyway. I enjoy spending time with him.”
The words came easier than expected.
“Martin is…”
Yet somehow, I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Lucas watched me with a fond expression.
“My lady truly has the heart of an angel.”
“No.”
I shook my head immediately.
“It’s not like that.”
I looked straight at him.
“I didn’t become friends with Martin because I wanted to seem kind. I genuinely think of him as my friend. I genuinely care about him.”
Taking another bite of tart, I continued.
“Today, he told me how he sees himself.”
The memory made my heart ache.
“It wasn’t anything good.”
I lowered my fork.
“He also said he doesn’t want to talk to me at school when other students are around because he’s worried it might cause trouble for me.”
I sighed.
“But I don’t care about that at all.”
“And?”
Lucas prompted gently.
“And I wanted to tell him that.”
My voice softened.
“But when I think about how much courage it must have taken for him to admit those things…”
I leaned heavily against the sofa.
“The words just won’t come out.”
A groan escaped me.
“How am I supposed to tell him properly?”
Lucas fell silent.
He considered my dilemma for a long moment.
Then—
He smiled.
“Does it have to be said out loud?”
I blinked.
“What?”
Turning toward him, I found him looking surprisingly confident.
As though he’d already found the answer.
“If speaking is difficult, then write it.”
I froze.
“Words spoken aloud disappear.”
Lucas folded his hands neatly.
“But written words remain.”
His smile softened.
“Martin can read them whenever he’s struggling. Whenever he doubts himself.”
Then he added,
“Why not write him a letter?”
…
Oh.
My eyes widened.
“…You’re right.”
The realization hit me all at once.
“I could write a letter.”
Why had I been so obsessed with saying everything face-to-face?
A letter could be rewritten.
Edited.
Improved.
“You can prepare your thoughts beforehand,” Lucas continued.
“Write down everything you want to tell him. Organize it carefully. Once it’s on paper, it’ll become easier to see which words might help—and which ones should be avoided.”
“Lucas!”
Overwhelmed with relief, I launched myself at him.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I hugged him tightly.
“Lucas, you’re a genius! You’re so smart!”
“…My lady, this is rather inappropriate.”
Despite his words, his voice carried more embarrassment than actual reproach.
“In fact, a gentleman entering a young lady’s room this late in the evening is already deserving of punishment.”
Flustered, he carefully untangled my arms and stood.
Touching the tip of one ear, he bowed politely.
“Still, I’m glad I could help. If you’ll excuse me, I have quite a few responsibilities waiting for me.”
And then—
He fled.
Practically sprinted out the door.
Watching him go, I burst into laughter.
“Pfft! That’s hilarious.”
I shook my head.
“He always acts so mature.”
The moment the door closed behind him, I jumped to my feet.
Marching straight to my desk, I gathered paper, envelopes, and my fountain pen.
Everything was arranged neatly before me.
“Giving him only a letter feels a little plain.”
I tapped my chin thoughtfully.
“I should buy him a new fountain pen tomorrow.”
Then another thought occurred to me.
“And maybe some ink too.”
A pause.
“And ice cream.”
A very important pause.
“Yes. Ice cream sounds necessary.”
Before I knew it, I was making a list of everything Martin and I needed to do after classes ended tomorrow.
Alongside that list, I began drafting the contents of my letter.
Eventually, I nodded firmly to myself.
“Perfect.”
A triumphant grin spread across my face.
“If I do all this and he still doesn’t understand how sincere I am…”
I pointed dramatically at the blank page.
“Then, Martin, you’re officially an idiot.”
Spreading out a fresh sheet of stationery, I prepared the candle and stand needed to melt sealing wax.
The flame flickered softly.
Restless.
Bright.
Warm.
Almost exactly like my heart.
