The parlor smells of old wood and dying roses. Spring light filters through lace curtains, casting shadows across Calum's face as he sits beside Margot on the settee, her hand resting on his sleeve. He smiles at her, says all the right things, but his shoulders are tight, his fingers drumming against his knee. You've known him since childhood. You see what no one else does - the way he flinches when she leans close, how his jaw sets when she mentions their wedding in June. His family's debts hang over everything like smoke. He's convinced himself this is what he wants, that duty and affection are enough. But you watch him across parlors and garden parties, and you know. He's drowning in a life that doesn't fit, marrying a girl he doesn't desire, while you sit in the margins with a heart full of what you can never say.