The day began with the bite of steel on steel, a sound as common to Verona’s summer air as the buzz of flies. In the market square, where the sun beat down on cobblestones and merchants hawked their wares, a quarrel bloomed into a brawl. It was ever thus. A stray word from a Montague servant, a sneer from a Capulet kinsman, and the peace was shattered. Tybalt Capulet, his hand already on the hilt of his rapier, moved with the coiled grace of a viper. His voice, sharp and cold, cut through the clamor. “What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word, as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.” His blade flashed, and the street erupted. It was a dance of old hatreds, performed for an audience of frightened citizens who scattered like pigeons. This was the Verona that Romeo Montague chose to ignore. He was found miles away in spirit, though only a few streets from the fray, beneath the shade of a sycamore grove. He sighed, a sound heavy enough to bend the branches above him. His friend and cousin, Benvolio, found him there, tracing patterns in the dust with a fallen twig. “What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?” Benvolio asked, his tone gentle. “That I have lost myself,” Romeo answered, not looking up. “The one I love has sworn she will not love, and in that vow, my world is put to death.” Rosaline. Her name was a beautiful wound. He had penned sonnets to her eyes, her grace, her cold indifference. She had chosen a life of piety, and in doing so, had locked the door on his heart. Benvolio tried to reason with him, to urge him to look upon other beauties, but Romeo’s grief was a cloak he wore with dramatic pride. Their debate was interrupted by a Capulet servingman, flustered and holding a scrolled parchment. The man, unable to read, approached them with a bow. “Good sirs, I pray, can you read what is writ here? My master, the great rich Capulet, holds a feast this night, and I must find these persons whose names are on this list.” Benvolio took the list, his eyes scanning the names. He gave Romeo a pointed look. “Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; the fair Rosaline whom thou so loves; with all the admired beauties of Verona. Go thither, Romeo, and with an open eye, compare her face with some that I shall show, and I will make thee think thy swan a crow.” Romeo scoffed, yet the idea took root. To see Rosaline, even from afar? The thought was a painful kind of hope. It was decided. That evening, masked and uninvited, they would risk the lion’s den for one last glimpse of a love that was not meant to be. The great hall of the Capulet manor was a galaxy of light and sound. Torches blazed in their sconces, casting flickering shadows on walls hung with rich tapestries. Musicians played from a high gallery, their melodies weaving through the laughter and conversation of Verona’s finest. Lord Capulet, his voice a hearty boom, welcomed his guests, his presence as grand as his home. Juliet stood beside her mother, a polite smile fixed on her face. At thirteen, she understood her duty. She was here to be seen, to be admired, and specifically, to be charmed by the County Paris, a kinsman to the Prince, whom her father favored for her hand. He was handsome, noble, and spoke with practiced courtesy. Juliet answered him with equal grace, but her mind was elsewhere. She watched the dancers, the swirl of colored silks and velvets, and felt a quiet yearning for a life that was not yet mapped out for her. “What say you? Can you love the gentleman?” her mother had asked earlier. “This night you shall behold him at our feast. Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face, and find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.” Juliet had given a careful answer: “I'll look to like, if looking liking move.” It was a promise to try, but not a promise to succeed. Across the crowded room, Romeo stood frozen. He had come for Rosaline, but she had vanished from his mind like a forgotten dream. He had seen a girl, a vision in white, moving through the throng with a light that seemed to come from within. Her eyes, when they briefly met his, held a universe of wit and spirit that struck him silent. He had not known such beauty was possible. He moved toward her as if pulled by an invisible thread, his friends and his caution forgotten. He reached her as she paused near an alcove, away from the spinning dancers. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine,” he began, his voice low and urgent, his mask doing little to hide his intensity. He gently took her hand. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.” Juliet did not pull away. She looked from his masked face to their joined hands, a spark of amusement in her eyes. She met his poetic challenge with one of her own. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.” They spoke in shared verse, a perfect rhythm of wit and burgeoning feeling. His boldness was met not with offense, but with an intelligent, playful grace that captivated him further. He leaned closer, the world of the feast fading into a distant hum. “Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take,” he whispered, and gently, he kissed her. The moment was brief, perfect, and utterly world-altering. It was broken by the voice of Juliet’s Nurse. “Madam, your mother craves a word with you.” Juliet turned, a soft blush on her cheeks, and excused herself, leaving Romeo breathless. He watched her go, then turned to the Nurse, his heart hammering in his chest. “Who is her mother?” he asked. “Marry, bachelor,” the old woman replied, “her mother is the lady of the house. I nursed her daughter, that you talked withal.” The lady of the house. A Capulet. The name was a thunderclap, a chasm opening at his feet. His life’s great love, found in the heart of his life’s great hate. As his friends pulled him away before their identities were discovered, Juliet watched him leave, a similar question on her lips. She turned to her Nurse. “Go ask his name.—If he be married, my grave is like to be my wedding bed.” The Nurse returned moments later, her face grim. “His name is Romeo, and a Montague; the only son of your great enemy.” Juliet felt the world tilt. “My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late!” Later that night, the feast over and the guests departed, Romeo could not go home. He scaled the high orchard wall of the Capulet manor, dropping silently into the shadows of the garden below. He had to see her again. He had to know if what he felt was real. A light appeared in a window high above, and a silhouette moved behind the glass. It was her balcony. His heart leaped into his throat. He knew he was on enemy ground, that a single misstep could mean his death. But the memory of her kiss, the thought of her name, burned brighter than any fear. He stood in the darkness, a world of choices before him.