unrequited love

Voltaire’s heart felt heavier than usual, burdened by the unrelenting pull. He had never been one to give in to emotion. For him, reason had always been the guiding star—something fixed and trustworthy in a world full of chaos. And yet, here he was, caught in the web of a feeling that defied every principle he’d lived by.

Émilie du Châtelet turned to him, her gaze sharp but not unkind. She had always been able to see through him—past the bravado, past the wit—to the man who feared what he could not control. And love—his love for her—was the most uncontrollable thing of all.

“Voltaire,” she said softly, her voice like the gentle rustle of leaves, “for someone so committed to logic, you’ve allowed yourself to be consumed by something you cannot reason your way out of.”

He winced slightly at the truth of her words. He could not deny it. The irony stung, and she knew it. He had spent his life deconstructing the beliefs of others, mocking their reliance on faith, their trust in things unseen. And yet, here he stood, guilty of placing his own hopes in something just as intangible.

“Do you take pleasure in reminding me of my foolishness?” he asked, attempting to mask the hurt in his voice with a veneer of dry humor.

Émilie smiled faintly. “I take no pleasure in seeing you struggle, Voltaire. But it is ironic, isn’t it? That the man who so passionately denounces superstition should find himself so thoroughly entangled in his own?”

He sighed, the tension in his chest tightening. “Love is not superstition,” he said quietly, though the words felt hollow. “Is it?”

She tilted her head, watching him with those keen eyes that seemed to understand more than he ever could. “It depends on how you approach it. If you love me while clinging to the hope that one day I will love you in return—despite knowing that I cannot—then, yes, it becomes a kind of faith. One that defies the reality in front of you.”

Voltaire looked away, staring at the river, his mind spinning. He had always believed that faith was the enemy of reason. And yet, his love for Émilie had become something dangerously close to that—an unyielding belief in something he knew could never be. The irony was bitter, and it gnawed at him.

“You’ve always had the upper hand, Émilie,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “You see through me in ways I wish you couldn’t.”

She stepped closer to him, her presence both comforting and maddening. “It’s not about having the upper hand, Voltaire. It’s about recognizing what’s in front of us—about accepting things as they are, not as we wish them to be.”

He clenched his jaw, his heart warring with his mind, to strip away illusions and expose the truth. But with her, it was different. With her, he wanted the illusion. He wanted to believe in the possibility of something more, even if it was irrational.

“Do you think I’m a fool?” he asked suddenly, his voice betraying a vulnerability he rarely showed.

Émilie paused, her expression softening. She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm lightly. “No,” she said quietly. “You’re not a fool. You’re human. And humans, for all their brilliance, are also creatures of emotion. You can’t outthink love, Voltaire. You can only feel it, even when it defies everything you believe.”

He looked at her, his heart aching with a mix of longing and despair. She was right. He couldn’t outthink this. He couldn’t reason his way through it. He had always believed that with enough logic, with enough clarity, he could conquer anything. But love… love was different. It slipped through his grasp like water, refusing to be contained by the boundaries of his intellect.

“And what do I do with that?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Émilie smiled—a sad, knowing smile. “You live with it,” she said. “You carry it with you, not as a burden, but as a part of who you are. Love isn’t something to be solved, Voltaire. It’s something to be accepted, even when it hurts.”

He swallowed hard, her words sinking into him like stones. He had always wanted answers—clear, definitive answers. But this… this was different. There were no answers here, only feelings. Feelings that he had tried so hard to suppress but could no longer deny.

“I don’t know how to live with something I can’t understand,” he admitted, the vulnerability in his voice raw and real.

Émilie stepped even closer, her hand resting gently on his arm. “You don’t have to understand it,” she said softly. “You just have to let it be. Let it exist. Let it shape you, even if it never becomes what you want it to be.”

Voltaire closed his eyes, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He had spent so long trying to control his heart, trying to keep it aligned with his mind. But now, standing here with her, he realized that perhaps control was the very thing holding him back.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Émilie watching him with a tenderness that made his heart ache even more. He knew, deep down, that she cared for him—just not in the way he wanted. And perhaps that was enough. Perhaps it had to be.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “For reminding me that even the greatest minds can be humbled by something as simple as love.”

Émilie smiled softly, her hand slipping away from his arm. “We’re all humbled by it, Voltaire,” she said gently. “Even me.”

And in that acceptance, he found a strange sense of peace.

Voltaire sat, the air around him heavy with the scent of jasmine and the weight of unspoken thoughts. The sky above was clear, the stars bright and indifferent, and the river of light flowed beside him, its quiet motion a cruel reminder of the passage of time—steady, unyielding, indifferent to the hearts of men.

She was radiant—there was no other word for it. Her mind was a force to be reckoned with, her beauty undeniable, but it was her presence, that commanding grace that always left him disarmed, that truly captivated him. She was, as he had always known, beyond him. Not in station or intellect—no, in those things they were equals, if such a word could be used to describe their endless sparring of ideas. But in her heart, in her soul, she belonged to something else, something he could never reach, no matter how much his own heart longed for her.

“Voltaire,” she said softly, her voice like the night air—cool, calming, yet charged with something deeper. “You’ve been lost in thought again. Tell me, what troubles you tonight?”

He glanced up at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You always know, don’t you?” he said quietly. “How to see through me, how to pull at the threads of my mind until all my carefully woven defenses fall apart.”

Émilie smiled, sitting beside him on the stone bench. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body, but not so close that it gave him the comfort he craved. “It’s not difficult,” she said, her tone light but with an edge of knowing. “You’re not as hard to read as you think.”

He chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it. “I’ve always believed that reason could guide me through anything,” he said, staring down at his hands. “That wit and logic were enough to make sense of the world. But here I am, undone by something I cannot control, something I cannot even explain.”

She turned to him, her expression softening. “And what is that?” she asked gently, though she knew the answer. She had always known.

He sighed, the weight of his own vulnerability pressing down on him. “You,” he whispered. “It’s always been you.”

Émilie’s smile faltered, her gaze softening with something like sadness. “Voltaire,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know that what we share—our minds, our conversations—it’s something rare, something I treasure. But—”

“But,” he interrupted, his tone bitter now, “it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

She reached out, her hand resting gently on his arm. “It is enough,” she said softly, but firmly. “It has to be.”

He shook his head, looking away from her, unable to meet her gaze. “hmmm” voice thick with emotion. “And yet I am, no better than the fools I’ve ridiculed—believing in something that will never be. Hoping for something that defies reason.”

Émilie’s eyes softened further, and she leaned closer, her hand sliding down to take his. “You’re not a fool, Voltaire,” she said gently. “You’re human. We all are. And love—it doesn’t follow the rules of reason. It never has.”

He looked at her then, his eyes filled with a pain he could no longer hide. “Do you think,” he asked quietly, “that it’s a kind of madness? To love someone you know you can never have?”

She smiled sadly, her thumb brushing lightly over his hand. “Perhaps,” she said. “But madness, in its own way, has a logic to it.”

He shook his head, the bitterness rising again. “And what have I learned?” he asked, his voice sharp now. “That I am just as susceptible to the same irrationalities I’ve spent my life mocking? That I am no better than those who cling to their superstitions and their gods?”

Émilie sighed, her hand slipping away from his. She stood then, turning to face the river, her eyes distant, lost in thought. “You’ve learned,” she said softly, “that you are not above the human condition. That even the sharpest mind cannot protect the heart from what it feels. And perhaps, in that, there is a kind of freedom. To know that we are all, in some way, vulnerable to forces beyond our control.”

He looked at her, his heart aching with a familiar longing. She was right, of course. She always was. But that didn’t make it any easier. He had spent so long trying to distance himself from the messiness of emotion, to keep his heart safe behind the walls of logic and wit. But now, those walls had crumbled, and he was left standing here, exposed, raw, and painfully aware of his own humanity.

“I’ve always admired your mind,” he said softly, standing beside her now. “But it’s your heart that undoes me.”

She turned to him, her gaze steady but filled with something like regret. “And that,” she said quietly, “is the irony, isn’t it? That for all our brilliance, for all our wit and reason, it’s the heart that holds the greatest power over us. And there’s nothing we can do to change that.”

Voltaire closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy cloak. She was right. Of course she was right. But that didn’t make the ache any less.

“I will always love you, Émilie,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She smiled, but it was a sad smile, filled with the understanding that had always been between them. “And I will always care for you, Voltaire,” she replied softly “But sometimes, love doesn’t unfold the way we want it to. Sometimes, it exists only in the spaces between what is and what could never be.”

Émilie du Châtelet stands by the edge of a marble fountain, her reflection shimmering in the water as she tosses a pebble into the pool, watching the ripples expand outward. Voltaire retreated to a pub. She turns, catching Ada Lovelace’s (just roll with me here) eye with a mischievous smile. “Ada, if our lives were equations, would we not be constants in each other’s lives? Always returning to the same place, no matter the variables?”

Ada, never one to miss an opportunity for a clever retort, walks over with a twinkle in her eye. “Ah, Émilie, but wouldn’t that make us far too predictable? I much prefer the idea of us as variables—always changing, always surprising. After all, what’s the fun in knowing the outcome when you can enjoy the journey of discovery?”

Sophie Germain, seated nearby with a book of poetry in hand, chuckles softly. “Leave it to you two to turn romance into mathematics,” she teases, her voice lilting with amusement. “But perhaps that’s the beauty of it. Love, like numbers, has its own logic, its own rhythm. It’s the way two minds meet and form a perfect equation.”

Mary Somerville, arranging flowers on a nearby table, chimes in with a playful grin. “Or perhaps it’s more like a dance—two people moving in sync, each step a response to the other. It’s the harmony, the balance, that makes it so enchanting.”

Émilie tilts her head thoughtfully. “A dance, a balance—yes, but also a conversation. One where the wit is as important as the affection. Where the mind is engaged as much as the heart.”

Ada’s smile softens as she gazes at the blooming daffodils. “I suppose that’s what makes it all so irresistible. The way wit and charm intertwine, each teasing out the best in the other. It’s not just about the clever words—it’s about what lies beneath them. The connection, the shared understanding.”

Sophie sets down her book, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “And yet, it’s the wit that keeps things interesting, isn’t it? After all, who could resist a lover who can make you laugh, even as they challenge your mind?”

Mary laughs, her voice as warm as the evening air. “Indeed. It’s the spark of wit that lights the fire of romance. But it’s the charm that keeps it burning. The gentle touches, the quiet moments that speak louder than words.”

Émilie nods, her gaze drifting back to the fountain. “And what of the moments of silence? The pauses in conversation where no words are needed because the connection is so strong?”

Ada steps closer, her voice dropping to a soft murmur. “Those are the moments where charm takes over. Where a glance, a smile, says everything that words cannot. It’s in those quiet spaces that the true depth of affection is revealed.”

The group falls into a companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts, yet all connected by the shared rhythm of their conversation. The wit has given way to something deeper, something more tender—a blending of intellect and emotion that feels as natural as the flowers blooming around them.

The evening had grown darker, the shadows lengthening across the garden as Voltaire and Émilie walked side by side. There was a silence between them now, not the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but something heavier—weighted by the things said.

Émilie, perceptive as ever, sensed the tension. But here, in this space between them, she couldn’t help but notice the irony in his own life—the way his heart betrayed the very principles he held so dear.

“You know,” she said, her voice light but tinged with amusement, “for a man who prides himself on reason, you are surprisingly… irrational when it comes to certain matters. You fall for every girl, honestly man.”

Voltaire glanced at her, frowning slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

She smiled, that playful smile that always made his heart twist in ways he didn’t care to admit. “You speak so passionately against superstition, against the foolishness of belief without evidence. And yet, you allow your own emotions to cloud your judgment.”

He stiffened slightly, his pride bristling at the suggestion arching an eyebrow.

“Because from where I stand, it seems that your heart has led you into the very trap you’ve spent your life trying to avoid.”

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. “What are you talking about?”

She looked at him, her gaze soft but unflinching. “Voltaire, here you are—allowing yourself to be consumed by feelings that you cannot rationalize or control. Isn’t that its own kind of superstition?”

Voltaire stared at her, taken aback by the sharpness of her words. She wasn’t wrong—he knew that. For all his talk of reason, for all his disdain for those who believed in things they couldn’t prove, he had allowed his love for her to become his own form of irrational belief. He had clung to the hope that she might one day love him in return, despite knowing, deep down, that it was impossible.

“You mock me,” he said quietly, though there was no anger in his voice—only a weary resignation.

“I don’t mock you,” she replied gently. “But I think it’s important for you to see the irony in your own life. You’ve spent so much time trying to distance yourself from the very thing that now holds you captive—emotion, irrationality, love.”

He looked away, his gaze drifting back to the river of light. “It’s different,” he muttered.

“Is it?” she asked, stepping closer to him. “You’ve always believed that love should be rational, that it should make sense. But love doesn’t care about reason, Voltaire. It doesn’t care about logic or proofs. It just… is. And perhaps that’s the hardest thing for you to accept—that there are some things in this world that you can’t explain away.”

He was silent for a long moment, the weight of her words sinking in. She was right, of course. For all his wit and intellect, for all his cutting remarks and clever arguments, he had been unable to escape the most irrational force of all—his love for her. It had consumed him, driven him to the very brink of his own beliefs, and left him standing here, vulnerable and exposed.

“You’re cruel, Émilie,” he said finally, though there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

She smiled back, her eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. “Only because you need to be reminded that even the greatest minds can be brought low by the simplest of emotions.”

Voltaire chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re right,” he admitted. “It seems that, for all my talk of reason, I’m just as prone to foolishness as the next man.”

Émilie laughed then, a sound that was warm and full of affection. “Perhaps that’s what makes you human, Voltaire,” she said. “And perhaps that’s something you should embrace, rather than fight against.”

He looked at her, his heart aching with the truth of her words. “I don’t know if I can,” he said honestly. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to live by reason.”

As he reached out and took her hand, her touch gentle but grounding. “perhaps it’s time to live by something else,” he said softly. “Something that doesn’t need to be explained, but simply felt.”

Voltaire felt a shock, looking up he had never seen her like this. Émilie stood before him, her eyes blazing with an intensity that made his breath catch. There was no playful glint in her gaze now, no hint of the warm affection that had always tempered their debates. She was furious, but it wasn’t the kind of anger that could be diffused with a clever retort or a charming smile. This was deeper—this was something he couldn’t just talk his way out of.

“Émilie,” he began, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty. “Please, just—” he began, but before he could continue, she stopped him with a look—a look that sent a chill down his spine.

“No, Voltaire.” Her voice was sharp, cutting through his words like a blade. “I don’t want to hear it. Not this time.”

He blinked, taken aback. For the first time in their long friendship, she wasn’t giving him space to speak. She wasn’t engaging with his intellect, wasn’t inviting him to spar with her ideas. She was simply… shutting him down. And he didn’t know how to respond to that.

She took a step closer, her expression fierce. “You always do this,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and something else—something he couldn’t quite place. “You hide behind your words, your wit, your reason. You think you can talk your way out of anything, that you can control every situation with your mind. But you can’t, Voltaire. Not this.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to defend himself, but she shook her head, her eyes flashing with frustration. “No,” she said firmly. “Just stop. Stop talking to me.”

The words hit him like a slap, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Stop talking to her? What did that even mean? How could he stop talking? Talking was what he did—it was how he navigated the world, how he understood himself and others. It was how he connected with her, how he had always connected with her.

“Émilie, I—” He started again, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“No,” she repeated, her voice softer now but no less intense. “I’m serious, Voltaire. I need you to stop. For once, I need you to just… stop.”

He stared at her, his mind racing, trying to find something—anything—that would make sense of this moment. But nothing came. He was at a loss, and the feeling was foreign, terrifying. How had they come to this? How had their conversations, their debates, their intellectual intimacy, led to this?

She took a deep breath, and to his shock, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. It wasn’t a cold gesture, not an angry one. It was a hug—warm, almost tender—but it felt like a farewell.

He stood frozen, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one who guided the conversation, who knew how to play the game. But now, standing there with her arms around him, he felt like a child lost in the dark.

“Émilie,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She pulled back slightly, her hands resting on his shoulders, her gaze softening for just a moment. “Voltaire,” she said quietly, “I care about you. I always have. But you need to understand that not everything can be reasoned through. Not everything can be solved with words.”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I… I don’t understand.”

She smiled then, but it was a sad smile, full of resignation. “I know,” she said softly. “That’s the problem. You don’t understand because you’re always trying to understand. But some things, Voltaire… some things you just have to feel.”

And then she let go, stepping back, her hands slipping away from his shoulders. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her back, but something in her expression stopped him. There was a finality there, a quiet determination that he knew he couldn’t argue with.

For the first time in his life, Voltaire didn’t know what to say.

He tried to rationalize it, tried to make sense of what had just happened. She had hugged him. She had told him to stop talking. She had walked away. What did it mean? What was she trying to tell him? How could he fix this?

But he realized with a sinking feeling that there was no fixing this. There was nothing to fix, because this wasn’t a problem that could be solved with logic or reason. This was something deeper—something beyond his control.

And that terrified him.

But now, faced with Émilie’s quiet rejection, he felt powerless. His mind, so sharp and quick in every other circumstance, was useless here. All the clever arguments, all the witty retorts—none of them could touch this.

This was something he couldn’t reason his way out of. This was something he had to feel.

And as he stood there, alone as the weight of that realization settled over him like a heavy cloak. He had spent his entire life trying to understand the world, to control it through his intellect. But now, faced with the raw, unyielding truth of his own emotions, he realized that there were some things he could never control.

And the irony of it—oh, the bitter irony—was that the very thing he had always prided himself on, his mind, had become his greatest obstacle. It was the one thing standing between him and the one person he had ever truly loved.

Voltaire, the master of reason, defeated by something as simple as love.

And in that moment, as the reality of his unfulfilled longing sank in, he realized that perhaps this was the lesson he had been avoiding all along: that not everything could be understood. Not everything could be controlled.

Some things—like love, like heartbreak—simply had to be felt.

“Voltaire,” she said, her voice quiet but laced with something cold and final. “I need you to stop.”

He laughed then, a hollow, bitter laugh that echoed through the empty garden. How fitting. How utterly, tragically fitting.

“Stop talking to me,” she said bluntly. Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm, unyielding. She took a step closer, closing the distance between them. Before he could react, she wrapped her arms around him in a brief, tight hug—something more like a goodbye than an embrace. Then, just as quickly, she pulled away, her eyes meeting his with a gaze that felt like a knife to the heart.

“Émilie,” he stammered, his usual composure shattered. “What… what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a flicker of something—anger, hurt, perhaps even regret. “You are brilliant, Voltaire. But you’re also exhausting. You think you can reason your way through everything—through love, through life, through this,” she gestured between them, “but you can’t.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture. “You don’t know when to stop,” she said, her voice rising just slightly. “You don’t know how to let things be. You analyze, you dissect, you poke and prod until there’s nothing left but fragments. You destroy everything you touch with your endless need for answers, for control.”

Voltaire blinked, her words hitting him like a physical blow. He had always thought of his mind as his greatest strength, his reason as the tool that set him apart. But now, here was Émilie—the woman he admired more than anyone—telling him that it was the very thing that was tearing them apart.

“I thought you valued our conversations,” he said weakly, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “I thought you—”

“I did,” she interrupted, her tone softer now but no less resolute. “But there comes a point where conversation isn’t enough. Where talking and reasoning and arguing become a barrier, not a bridge. You want to control everything, Voltaire—your mind, your heart, even me. And I can’t be a part of that anymore.”

He stared at her, his mind racing to make sense of what she was saying. Control? He didn’t want to control her. He just… he just wanted to understand, to make sense of things, to find some kind of certainty in a world that felt increasingly chaotic and uncertain.

“Émilie,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” she said softly, her gaze softening for just a moment. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you have. You’ve suffocated me with your need for answers, with your constant questioning. I can’t breathe, Voltaire. I need space. I need… I need you to let me go.”

Voltaire stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. She was leaving. She was walking away. And there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do to stop her.

For the first time in his life, he found himself speechless—not for lack of words, but because he knew that no words would be enough.

For years, he had believed that if he just talked enough, argued enough, he could make her love him in the way he loved her. But she had seen the truth long before he did—that his endless need for answers was a form of control, a way to avoid facing the uncertainty of life and love.

He had pushed her away, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. He had tried to shape their relationship into something that fit within the confines of his understanding, and in doing so, he had suffocated the very thing he cherished most.

He sank to the ground, his mind still racing but his body numb. He didn’t know how to deal with this, with the emptiness that now stretched before him. He had always believed that reason could protect him, could shield him from the pain of uncertainty. But now, as he sat alone in the garden, he realized that reason had its limits. It could explain the world, but it couldn’t save him from himself.

He had never been one to falter in conversation, never been at a loss for words. But tonight, the silence between them felt heavy, charged with something unsaid. And when Émilie finally spoke, her voice was low but firm, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Voltaire,” she began, her tone sharper than he expected, “there are moments when your words—your endless, brilliant words—feel like a wall. A wall you use to keep me at a distance, even as you pretend to draw me closer.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the accusation. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice tinged with defensiveness.

She turned to face him, her eyes hard but not unkind. “I mean,” she said slowly, deliberately, “that you talk and talk, but you never really ‘say’ anything. You hide behind your wit, your reason, your endless need to be right. And in doing so, you keep yourself from feeling—really feeling—anything.”

Voltaire opened his mouth to respond, to defend himself, but she stopped him with a raised hand. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to hear another clever retort. I don’t want another argument where you use words as armor. I want you to ‘stop’.”

He stared at her, his mind racing to find something—anything—that could disarm her, something that could bring the conversation back to familiar ground where he had the upper hand. But nothing came. For the first time, perhaps ever, he found himself speechless.

Émilie stepped closer, her eyes softening just enough to show that this wasn’t meant to wound him, but to wake him up. She placed her hands gently on his shoulders, the warmth of her touch both comforting and devastating. “Voltaire,” she said softly, almost tenderly, “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you. But I can’t keep doing this—can’t keep pretending that your words are enough when I know that behind them, there’s something deeper that you’re too afraid to show.”

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “Émilie,” he began, his voice hoarse, “I…”

But she shook her head. “No. Don’t speak. Not this time.”

Then, without warning, she pulled him into an embrace. It was unexpected—both fierce and gentle, filled with the kind of intimacy that he had always craved but never quite known how to accept. He stood there, frozen, as she held him close, her arms around him as if trying to pull him back into the world of real, unspoken connection.

For a moment, he allowed himself to relax into the embrace, to feel her warmth, her strength. It was both a balm and a wound, soothing and tearing at him all at once. He wanted to stay in this moment forever, wanted to bury himself in the safety of her arms and forget the weight of his own defenses.

But then she pulled back, her hands still resting lightly on his shoulders, her gaze steady and unwavering. “I need you to stop talking to me,” she said quietly, the words landing like stones in his chest. “Not because I don’t care, but because your words… they’re a barrier. And I can’t break through it anymore.”

He blinked, his mind struggling to process what she was saying. “You want me to stop… talking to you?” he echoed, his voice hollow.

She nodded, her expression soft but resolute. “Yes,” she said. “I need space. I need time. And I need you to stop trying to reason your way out of this. Sometimes, Voltaire, the mind can’t solve what the heart feels.”

And with that, she stepped back, letting her hands fall away from him. Voltaire’s heart clenched as he watched her turn and walk away, her figure growing smaller as she moved deeper into the garden. He wanted to call after her, to say something—anything—that might make her turn back. But the words wouldn’t come.

She took a step back, her eyes lingering on his for just a moment longer before she turned and began to walk away.

As she disappeared from view, Voltaire was left standing alone, the garden suddenly feeling vast and empty. The air that had once been filled with the quiet hum of life now felt still, oppressive. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His mind, usually so sharp, so quick, was a fog of confusion and fear.

The irony was not lost on him. Voltaire, the man who had spent his life dissecting the human condition, who had written volumes on reason, freedom, and the power of the mind, was now completely undone by something he couldn’t reason through. Love, loss, vulnerability—these were concepts he had always approached from a distance, as if they were puzzles to be solved rather than experiences to be lived.

But now, standing here in the aftermath of Émilie’s rebuke, he realized that he had been wrong. Love wasn’t a puzzle. It wasn’t something that could be deconstructed and understood with logic. It was messy, chaotic, unpredictable. And worst of all, it was something he couldn’t control.

That was what terrified him the most—the loss of control. Voltaire had always prided himself on his ability to navigate life with a clear head, to think his way through any situation. But with Émilie, he had found himself in uncharted territory. Her presence in his life had forced him to confront parts of himself that he had long buried—his need for connection, for vulnerability, for something deeper than mere intellectual satisfaction.

And now, she was gone. Not because she didn’t care, but because he had been too afraid to let her in. He had used his words as a shield, his reason as a weapon, and in doing so, he had pushed her away.

The realization hit him like a blow to the chest. He had always thought himself above such things—above the messiness of love and emotion. But now he saw that he had been a fool. He had let his fear of vulnerability rob him of the one thing he had always secretly wanted: real, honest connection.

Voltaire sank to his knees beside the river, his hands trembling as he stared at the water. The light that had once seemed so beautiful now felt cold, distant. He had lost her—not because of fate or circumstance, but because of his own inability to let go of the need for control.

For the first time in his life, Voltaire felt truly lost. And there was no clever retort, no witty observation, that could save him from the ache in his chest.

He closed his eyes, a single thought echoing in his mind: ‘What have I done?’