The days slowed, even as the engagement drew nearer.
There was less noise in me now, not because things were easier, but because I had learned how to carry them gently. I moved through the palace with practiced calm, answering questions, approving details, smiling when required. From the outside, I was exactly what a princess should be.
Inside, I was listening.
Fahad did not seek me out the way others did. He never demanded my attention, never placed himself in my path. And yet, in the quiet moments, he was there—steady as a constant I had stopped questioning.
We found ourselves walking together one early morning, the gardens still wet with dew. No guards. No advisors. Just the soft sound of our steps on stone.
"You seem peaceful today," he said.
"I'm learning," I replied. "It's easier when I don't fight every thought."
He nodded, understanding without asking me to explain. That was his gift—to make space without filling it.
We sat on a low bench beneath an old tree. There was a respectful distance between us, but it no longer felt like separation. It felt like choice.
"I won't complicate things for you," Fahad said after a while. "I know what's coming."
"I know," I said.
The breeze stirred the leaves above us. I watched the light shift across the garden, aware of how rare moments like this were—moments without pressure, without expectation.
"I'm grateful for you," I added quietly.
He turned to me then, surprise softening his expression. "That's enough," he said. "More than enough."
Nothing else needed to be said.
When we stood to leave, he waited for me, matching his pace to mine. Not leading. Not following. Just beside me.
As we parted, he gave a small bow—not the formal one, but something personal, something sincere. I returned it with a smile that was entirely my own.
The engagement was still approaching. The future was still uncertain.
But for the first time in a long while, I felt steady.
And sometimes, I realized, calm was its own kind of courage.