I looked calm in every photo. Straight back. Straight tie. Straight smile.
What a joke.
There were over a hundred people at our wedding. Some I knew. Most I didn't. All smiling like they were watching a fairytale unfold.
And I played my part.
Michelle looked beautiful. Radiant, even. But I couldn't tell her.
I heard the orchestra. I heard the camera shutters. I heard the murmurs of relatives trying not to be rude while still whispering every detail.
But mostly, I heard myself thinking:
This doesn't feel real.
I watched Michelle float through the day like a ghost in silk. She was tense — like every part of her was holding a breath. I never told her she looked beautiful. Not because she wasn't. She was — in that tragic, cinematic kind of way. But I didn't want to lie.
Not today.
And anyway, she wasn't paying attention to me. She was trying not to panic. I recognized it — because I was doing the same.
The pastor said something about love. About sacrifice. I didn't bother remembering it. I tuned out most of it. I was too focused on standing still, on not sweating through my suit, on not shaking. That's when I stared at Michelle — or more specifically, her hands. She kept fidgeting with her nails, like she wasn't sure how to be still.
Then it was her turn to say I do. She paused.
Her eyes flicked up.
I didn't know why I did it, but I reached for her hand.
It was stupid. Small. Soft.
But she looked at me like I'd just offered her a life raft.
She said I do. Her voice was shaky. I didn't squeeze her hand. I just let it rest there. It felt human. Too human.
I don't know why I did that.
I still hope she doesn't ask.
I walked beside her, bowed to elders, gave rehearsed smiles, accepted congratulations. It felt like... handing out receipts at a store I didn't want to work at.
What does happiness even look like at a wedding like this?
Is it the relief of fulfilling expectations?
Is it watching your parents breathe easier because you did what they wanted?
Is it pretending the knot in your stomach is excitement instead of dread?
The reception blurred. I ate almost nothing. Too many stares. Too many cameras. Too many thoughts.
But there was a moment... brief, stupid, dangerous. When we decided to have our own mini reception. when I saw her laughing with her friends — Aria and Michelle drinking the night away, Zane trying his hardest to tell me ways I could survive, Maria flirting with the bartender just because — and I thought...
"I'm glad it's her."
If it had to be anyone.
If I had to be caged like this.
I'm glad it's her.
She wasn't cruel. She wasn't naive. She was fire in a glass jar. Loud, clever, unpredictable.
And I was the storm outside, silent and swelling.
We were all too drunk to walk, yet somehow, Zane and I stood there—watching like quiet sentinels—as the others laughed and played until sleep began to claim them one by one.
"Please, when you guys get home, make sure to give her a cup of any soda and then a cup of honey water," Zane said, gathering up the ladies' purses with surprising grace. "She tends to get low on sugar after drinking."
I stood there, confused, still trying to process his calm composure.
"Why are you just standing there? Get her up and go home," he added, pressing Michelle's purse into my hand.
I looked over to where she was nestled between Aria and Maria, practically cuddling them like a child seeking comfort.
"I'm telling you how to take care of her as a friend, not a rival," Zane continued, now backing Maria, holding Aria in front, and slinging their bags around his neck like a seasoned caretaker. "Besides, I'm too busy trying to win over mine to worry about yours."
He turned to the girls. "Okay, girls—say bye."
"Bye!" Aria and Maria chorused in unison.
I was still stunned, but none of that mattered anymore. I gently picked Michelle up and we headed out to find a taxi. She was unusually clingy—something I'd never seen before. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Maybe she just needed a hug.
When we got into the cab, the driver glanced at us and smiled. "Such a lovely couple," he said warmly.
I didn't know how to respond. Should I smile? Laugh? Deny it? I stayed silent, unsure.
Once home, I followed Zane's instructions. A cup of soda. Then a cup of honey water. And just like that, Michelle suddenly looked energised, sober, her energy returning as if nothing had happened.
We headed into the bedroom to freshen up and wind down for the night. That's when it hit me—I hadn't told her.
"Kael, can you help me with the zipper of my dress?" she asked softly.
I froze, hand halfway extended.
There was so much I hadn't said.
Unzipping her dress was harder than I thought it would be.
Not because it was complicated.
Because my hands were shaking.
Because every second brought me closer to the thing I had been avoiding all day: telling her the truth.
I thought I could say it cleanly. Neatly.
Instead, I stumbled.
"We might never enjoy our marriage," I said. Was that the best I could do? I sound like a total coward.
She didn't react the way I expected.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She fought. Verbally. Logically. Emotionally. And I saw in that moment — I thought she not worried about us.
Was there an Us to be worried about?
She wanted something solid to stand on, even if that solid ground was a lie.
And I thought I could give it to her since we saw this marriage as an obligation.
When I told her—
When I said it—
When I let that word fall out of my mouth like a confession and a crime in one breath—
She collapsed.
Not out of weakness. Out of weight.
Like she had been carrying both of us, and suddenly, she couldn't.
She didn't hate me.
She looked at me like I had broken something valuable she'd been pretending wasn't cracked in the first place.
I wanted to assure her that it didn't matter.
But that would be cruel.
So I stood there. Still in my tux. Still married. Still pretending this wasn't the loneliest I'd ever felt in a room with someone who knew the truth.
I wanted to say: Thank you for not yelling. For not hating me. For being stronger than I deserve.
But all I did was stare back.
And that night, after she freshened up, she curled up on one side of the bed and I laid on the other. She said, " I am still a bit drunk so let's talk about this tomorrow, okay".
I realized something no one prepared me for:
You can hurt someone by just being honest.
You can ruin something without meaning to.
You can be the villain in someone's story… and still wish them happiness.
And maybe — just maybe —
That's what marriage is sometimes.
A truth no one wants to hear, whispered between two people who can't run away.