They Call Me Prince Charming

I have been informed frequently, and without consultation, that romance is my defining trait.

This is inconvenient, as I have never shown a particular aptitude for it.

Courtesy, yes. Attention, certainly. A tolerance for emotional intensity, within limits. But romance—as understood in fairy tales—demands a willingness to suspend judgement in favor of feeling. I have never found this especially safe.

That has stopped no one from assigning me the role.

Prince Charming is not a name. It is a label that relieves people of the burden of discovering my character, replacing it with the convenience of my utility. One that suggests inevitability and emotional fluency—neither of which were tested before the title was applied.

If I am honest, I would have preferred to be a physician. The hours are better, the uniforms more practical, and one is rarely expected to wake comatose strangers with unsolicited mouth contact.

I discovered this young, before the expectations hardened. When accidents were still allowed to happen near me. A groom thrown from a horse. A kitchen maid who cut her hand badly and tried to hide it so as not to interrupt service. I noticed how pain behaved. How fear worsened symptoms. How people calmed when someone stayed.

I liked the clarity of it.

A fever did not care about social position. A wound did not improve because someone was important. There was something reassuring in that.

When I suggested—tentatively—that I might study medicine, the idea was treated as a misunderstanding.

“You’ll have doctors,” my father said.

“I want to be one,” I replied.

He paused, then said, “Princes don’t become doctors.”

“Why not?”

“Because doctors are useful,” he said. “Princes are symbolic.”

He presented this as explanation enough.

I continued my studies quietly, smuggling medical texts beneath poetry collections. Learned that the heart is less a symbol of love than a stubborn muscle prone to failure. Memorized symptoms, treatments, patterns—the romance of the body's betrayals. I did not speak of it. A prince fascinated by bile and phlegm is hardly the stuff of ballads. After all, no maiden dreams of being diagnosed rather than desired.

By adulthood, my role had been defined. I would be sent where something had gone wrong in a very specific way. I would arrive late. I would resolve matters. I would disappear before complications set in.

I was not expected to ask questions.

So when news arrived of a princess under enchantment—sleeping, untouched by time, awaiting release—it was treated as routine.

“A true love’s kiss,” the messenger said.

I asked if anyone had examined her.

He stared at me. “She’s cursed.”

“That is not mutually exclusive,” I said.

This did not improve his confidence.

~

The castle stood at the edge of a forest grown deliberately thick, discouraging visitors without preventing them. I noted structural neglect, compromised stonework, long-term abandonment rather than sudden catastrophe.

Inside, the air was clean. No signs of decay. No evidence of struggle.

The princess lay asleep in a high room with good light and poor insulation. Her breathing was even, skin warm, pulse steady.

By any standard I recognized, she was healthy.

I did not kiss her.

This was not rebellion. It was habit. One does not intervene without understanding the condition.

I sat. I observed.

Then the standard assigned fairy appeared, with irritation first and form second, as though annoyance had learned how to walk.

“Well?” she remarked, tapping her foot.

“I’m assessing,” I replied.

“You’re meant to kiss her.”

“I’m aware.”

“And yet you’re sitting.”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “What kind of prince are you?”

“One who prefers accuracy,” I said.

“This is a fairy tale,” she snapped. “You’re overthinking.”

“I think it’s been simplified excessively.”

“She wants this,” the fairy declared.

“For what definition of this?” I asked.

“Romance. Rescue. Resolution.”

I looked at the sleeping girl. She did not look distressed. Whatever she was experiencing, it was not pain.

“Wake her,” the fairy commanded.

I stood and spoke the princess’s name—the real one, learned from records and correspondence and things I was not expected to read.

Her eyes opened quickly, as though wakefulness had been waiting.

She looked at me hopefully. “You came,” she said softly.

“Yes.”

Her gaze dropped to my hands. “You haven’t—”

“No.”

Her relief faltered.

The fairy exhaled sharply. “Explain later. Kiss her now.”

The princess sat up, hair disordered, eyes bright with expectation.

“You’re Prince Charming,” she said.

“That is the designation.”

She smiled. “I thought it would feel different.”

“How?”

“Warmer,” she said. “Certain.”

“Certainty is uncommon at first contact,” I said.

Her smile thinned. “Do you love me?”

“I don’t know you.”

She blinked. “But you’re supposed to.”

“I’m assigned to help you leave,” I said. “Love was not specified.”

Her hands tightened in the blanket. “I imagined this,” she said. “The relief of it. The sense that everything would finally make sense.”

She stopped, breath shortening.

“If you didn’t kiss me,” she said, voice rising slightly, “then why am I awake?”

“Because you woke up,” I said. “Your body is fine. Your expectations are unsettled.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It is accurate.”

She laughed once, sharply. “So I waited all this time for nothing?”

“For waking,” I said. “Which is not nothing.”

The fairy stepped forward. “You’re confusing her.”

“I think she’s doing that herself,” I stated.

The princess’s breathing had gone shallow. She pressed her palms into the mattress as if anchoring herself. Her eyes filled quickly, which seemed to irritate her; she blinked hard, as if tears were another problem to solve.

“I thought,” she said, “that if someone loved me immediately, I’d never feel like this again.”

I pulled a chair closer—not toward her, just near enough to be useful.

“Feet on the floor,” I said.

She did it automatically.

“Breathe.”

She tried. Failed. Tried again.

The fairy rolled her eyes. “This is absurd.”

“Quiet,” I replied.

She looked scandalized.

The princess got a full breath in. Then another. Her shoulders lowered slightly.

“There,” I said. “You’re not foolish. You’re just...invested.”

“In what?” she asked.

“In a very popular idea,” I said. “It photographs well.”

Her mouth twitched.

“I’ve seen people swear eternal devotion at a ball,” I added, “right before midnight turned everything into logistics—pumpkins, mice, lost glass shoes, panicked footmen, and a prince making promises with no supporting paperwork. Three weeks later, the couple were arguing about bed chamber curtains.”

She laughed despite herself.

“Romance happens,” I said. “But instant certainty is mostly stagecraft. It’s impressive but it doesn’t hold up in bad weather.”

She exhaled slowly. “So what do I do with all this… wanting?”

“Keep it,” I said. “Just don’t hand it to the first person who arrives on schedule.”

The fairy threw up her hands. “What kind of prince are you?”

“The kind who doesn’t confuse a dramatic entrance with treatment,” I said.

The princess wiped under one eye quickly. “So you’re not going to kiss me.”

“No.”

“And you’re not in love with me.”

“I’m not opposed to you,” I said. “but I’m opposed to being the solution.”

She nodded, absorbing that.

“I still want romance,” she said. “Eventually.”

“I assumed.”

“But maybe,” she said, glancing toward the door, “I want it awake.”

“That’s sensible,” I said.

She stood. “Ok, I’m leaving. Before someone puts another curse on me.”

“Good,” I said. “They’re rarely hygienic.”

She laughed—really laughed.

“You’re funny,” she said. “Are you coming?”

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

The princess smiled.

We left the tower without a kiss.

There was no resistance. No thunder. The door opened normally. The stairs behaved as stairs usually do. The princess paused once, as if expecting something to stop her, then continued when nothing did.

Outside, my horse waited where I had left him, reins slack, one hip cocked in mild disapproval. He lifted his head when he saw us and snorted, as if two people leaving a cursed tower without fanfare was beneath comment.

Behind us, the fairy muttered something about standards. I did not turn around.

I helped the princess onto the horse first. She hesitated only briefly, then accepted my hand. She adjusted her seat quickly, testing her balance, settling without remark. This suggested she would manage travel adequately.

Ahead of us, the road was unremarkable. Dirt, stones, a steady grade. It did not glow or promise anything. There was no music playing. It simply continued.

We rode in silence. The kind that allows breathing to settle and expectations to recalibrate. The horse chose a steady pace. I allowed it.

After a while, she said, “So this is it.”

“For now,” I replied.

She nodded, apparently satisfied with that.

I have since been told—by people who prefer their stories decisive—that I lack passion. That I missed an opportunity. I should have felt more, sooner, and on schedule.

This is inaccurate.

I am passionate about things that improve when managed properly. About outcomes that change when attention is applied consistently rather than dramatically.

When asked what became of the princess, I say only that she woke up.

That, I have found, is enough.