A Small Regret

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From the Desk of Lord Northwood

May 27h, A quiet reflection on fear, friendship, and the silences that speak louder than words.

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There are nights when the hush is heavier than the dark — when even the candles seem reluctant to flicker, as if wary of drawing too much attention to a room that knows emptiness too well.

In such a silence, I find myself caught — not in drama or scandal, but in the cruel theatre of my own mind. There is no grand ball, no whisper behind a fan, no fabled romance to distract me. Just the tick of time and the quiet question that haunts:

Is this all there is?

Some years ago, a dear friend once told me that I am not alone — that she, too, feared the end of all things, that she, too, sometimes felt the world slipping away faster than her heart could hold it. It was a moment so intimate, so unvarnished, that for a breath, I panicked. I froze. Rather than open my arms to that vulnerability — to her courage — I recoiled, afraid I might unravel entirely if I spoke. I told her I could not talk about such things.

But what I should have said was:

Thank you.

Thank you for seeing me in the quiet.

Thank you for reaching out across the void and offering your hand.

I think often of how I failed her in that moment — not out of cruelty, but fear.

And I wonder how many of us move through the world like that — desperate to be understood, yet too scared to let others witness the storm inside us.

If ever you find yourself in such a place, dear reader — should your soul feel weary, your hope thin, and your fears too loud — know this:

I am sorry I did not speak then, but I speak now.

I see you. I see us.

And though the silence may be deep, we do not face it alone. Faithfully,

Lord Nicholas Northwood