Infatuation (King George III xreader)

~16~ Loose threads of a plan

I turn - as if in an attempt to spark up energy - laying on my side before glancing at the doors.
My frame currently occupied the couch - lounging on the soft surface that offered a more serene break from the muffled busy work outside the king's quarters, and I would be stretching the truth if I said that hadn't at least tried to take a nap, to waste away an hour.
However, seeming as my body had been against the idea, I now needed something to fight off the dull afternoon.

I pull off the thin gray blanket, my frame standing and I turn my attention to the bookshelf tucked against the right wall before glancing back at the doors.

Two options were available to me - both of which didn't really seem pleasant to the cobwebs mudding my mind and turning my mood more sour at the thought of socializing — and despite the not-so chipper state I was slumped in, I wasn't meaning to make the day feel groggy with substandard emotions.

With the clearing of my throat I turn and walk back over to the neatly organized desk - my goal quite simple and leaving a momentary glimpse of something to do.

I pull out the drawers one by one, quickly scanning the contents as to not pry too much into the royal's personal space - until I found a familiar, dark brown bag.

I hadn't actually seen the item in weeks, I supposed in some attempt to not acknowledge the situation I was in fully, of what happened right under most everyone's noses and under the roof of my family home.

The thought made me frown at my curiosity of what all the male had seemingly borrowed.

I set my satchel down on the desk, opening it with a sense of caution to peer at the contents held within.
The small, drawn on pieces of parchment were tucked neatly inside along with a few other small items, however, one dark hued, leather object tied knots in my curiosity - plaguing it with more unanswered questions that piled on the others like quickly falling snow.

My hand recoils, finding safety near my chest - yet, in acknowledging my emotions I knew I wasn't frightened, far from it as those feelings had long become dull with time. I then reach in, pulling out the familiar journal and my fingers found themselves tracing the worn in spine etched with creases and cracked lines.

The pages were thin - almost delicate to the touch - each creating a muted, but still crisp sound with each turned section scrawled on with my once busy thoughts of day to day life written down in a somewhat neat, small collection of my own calm chaos.

"July twenty-seventh..." in another moment I could've smiled at the recollection that held my attention easily - driving off the once dry lack of interest like the heros one heard in fables.

'July 27, 1777

I met the King of England today—if it is even classified as such.
I like to consider it more as an embarrassment to my family's good will. A scandle to what I perceived as my own self confidence.

I thought I was working on it, getting better—opening up and talking to people more even if it was on a smaller scale, during my time at the bakery or even complimenting others in town. But, in that time, it all had vanished, turning to something I couldn't grasp for the life of me.

My actions were unacceptable—had a possibility of offending a royal in some way—and scattered my nerves to the point I had to leave in some pathetic attempt to save my vanished courage.
No, scratch that...to clear my head.

Barbara says they want to meet me again.
However I don't think I will. I can't help but think I made the king angry, upset him.

It's safe to say I'm ashamed of myself...'