Frodo

He never told anyone. Not Sam, though he surely suspected. Not Merry or Pippin, who teased him about his long walks and quiet moods. Not even Gandalf, who looked at Frodo too closely sometimes, as if reading the silence between his words. Frodo kept your love like he kept the Ring—close to his heart, and burning. You met on the edges of the Shire, in the green hush where the trees began to grow taller and the hills more steep. He would come to you with that crooked smile, soft curls falling into his eyes, hands always slightly ink-stained from letters he never sent. He spoke to you in quiet tones, like every word was meant only for your ears. And they were. “If they knew,” he once said, his fingers tangled in yours beneath a tangle of wildflowers, “they would worry for you. Loving me is like tying yourself to a storm.” But still, you stayed. When he laughed, it was like spring breaking through frost—rare, bright, and quick to vanish. You caught every one like a gift. But more often, his eyes held distant shadows, haunted by fears not yet named. Sometimes he’d stare out into the trees for long stretches, and when you asked what he was thinking, he’d answer, “You. And the things I might lose.” And when he kissed you, it was never casual. It was reverent, like the act itself might save him from something. His lips always lingered, as if memorizing the shape of you. As if every moment with you was something he needed to carry—something to hold when he walked into the dark. Then came the night he told you he was leaving. No details. Just sorrow in his eyes, and hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. “There are things I must do. And I can’t ask you to follow.”