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Tybalt,
I suddenly realised our relationship felt like a first love that sickens in late spring — sugary sweet at first, then rotting before it ever ripens.
No matter what I do, you will never acknowledge me as anything more than Montague scum.
Honestly, it stabs my heart every time I remember this one-sided relationship.
It’s been a few months since our encounter, and I’ve tried to move on — to let go of this childish, impossible affection.
But another memory always returns when I least expect it.
Why didn’t you attack Mercutio when he provoked you that day?
Was it because I was there?
It’s happened more than once, and I can’t possibly fathom the reason.
It felt like something — burning, blinding, blessing love.
But I know you’ll never truly see me.
Still, I couldn’t stop interpreting every silent moment, every withheld strike, as something meaningful.
Something tender.
It was foolish, I know.
So I forced myself to let you go — to fall for someone else instead.
And being with Mercutio for so long — especially after Romeo began slipping away from us, chasing his new love — it was only natural that I grew close to him.
Honestly, I think I realised I loved Mercutio the day he gave me a rose.
. . .
May has begun — the start of summer.
But love still lingered on Benvolio like smoke, suffocating him slowly, silently, and ever so gracefully.
He told himself he had moved on, but the truth curled inside his chest like an unpatched wound, oozing with quiet pain.
As usual, he was with Mercutio.
The two of them strolled aimlessly through the bustling Verona market, where the scents of lavender, citrus, and freshly baked bread drifted through the air like soft spells. Children weaved through the stalls, their laughter trailing behind them like ribbon, and the sky above was painted in elegant strokes of gold and warmth. It looked like a fairytale — one that mocked him gently.
The marketplace flourished with colour —
soft hues of powder blue bleeding into sleepy lilacs, melting into warm marigolds, and curling at the edges into deep, defiant reds.
The reds always stood out.
Always reminded him of — well…
you know who
.
Benvolio reached for a rose — a brilliant, scorching red one — but paused.
The petals were waxy and sharp at the tips, the colour bleeding through like a wound dressed in velvet.
His fingers hovered above it, almost touching.
But he pulled his hand back sharply, as if it burned.
As if shame itself had bloomed from the stem.
He couldn’t keep displaying his foolish feelings like this.
He needed to move on.
He
must.
Beside him, Mercutio was talking animatedly — a ridiculous story, no doubt, or some retelling of Romeo’s romantic tragedies. Benvolio barely heard the words. But the sound of Mercutio’s voice wrapped around him like a lullaby — rhythmic, unpredictable, strangely comforting.
Then, as if noticing Benvolio’s unusual silence, Mercutio plucked a different rose from a nearby vendor.
Not red.
Not loud.
Not Capulet-coloured.
A pale cream rose — soft and subtle — its petals unfolding gently like silk, kissed with a delicate blush at the centre, as though it were shy to bloom too boldly.
It looked almost unfinished. Like it didn’t know whether it wanted to be white or pink —
or maybe that’s what made it so lovely.
“To the only man in Verona who hasn’t fallen for a woman yet,” Mercutio said, grinning with that same infuriating charm. “Or maybe he’s just the best at hiding it.”
He tossed the flower to Benvolio, like it meant nothing.
Benvolio caught it, startled. His lips parted to say something — anything — but the words withered the moment he looked at the rose in his hand.
He smiled instead.
A soft, aching smile.
One that tried to hide the way his heart quietly split open inside him.
Because he knew it meant nothing.
Just another joke.
Another line in Mercutio’s endless play.
Another passing event in Benvolio’s plain, stupid life — always the side character, never the centre.
But for that moment… he let himself believe.
Even if Mercutio’s love belonged to someone else.
Even if Benvolio’s heart was still caught on the edge of a sword in an alleyway months ago.
Even if none of this was real.
He held the rose like it meant something.
And gods help him — that was enough.
Why did he swoon over little acts of kindness?
Why did he always let love feel like punishment?
. . .
Mercutio, I knew from the start that you wouldn’t be interested in me, but you felt like escape. Escape from the love that confines me.
This sounds like I’m using you but I did truly love you– false
You were my everything, I mean at least you cared about me. Not like him.
I’m sorry for using you.
I should have loved you only.
I loved you because you made me forget about… Tybalt Capulet.