I wonder, is she warm enough? Does she sleep sufficient hours, or does she stay awake long into the night, studying scientific texts?
Before she left, I asked Rosaline to be my wife, but she denied me.
I understood. The tragedy was too fresh, the pain too deep when I knelt before her and professed my love.
They say timing is everything.
I am told, in letters from Petruchio, that my love does well in Padua. She is admired by her fellow scholars and has duly impressed the preeminent professors there. I am not surprised.
She has not written me herself That does not surprise me either. I fear, in her desire to serve the greater good,
she has forced herself to forget me. Petruchio informs me in his communiques that my Rosaline has befriended his own lady love—Katherina, whom he candidly confesses can be something of a shrew. No matter. He adores her, and she him. I am glad for my old friend, but for myself, I suffer quietly.
Rosaline! Such an amazing girl! Nay, woman! O, I do ache for the loss of her, and not a day goes by that I do not send up a prayer for her return. In the meantime, I am busy caring for the twins. Sebastian’s cough is long gone, and Viola is being taught to dance, though she prefers books. She often reads to her grandfather and my lord before the fire while Crab lolls nearby, protecting us all.
The golden statues of Romeo and Juliet—impetuous lovers, young strangers—are newly completed and stand now at the center of the city. I pass by them often, though I try not to loiter in their shadows, which fall like grim memories as the sun sets upon Verona.
Mercutio is never far from my thoughts.
And Rosaline is always close within my heart.