WEDDING
I sat on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, watching her with the kind of curiosity I usually reserved for suspicious medical reports. She was sitting there surrounded by colored paper, scissors, glue, and enough chaos to make me nervous.
Small strips of pink and white papers were scattered all over the floor like a kindergarten art project had exploded in our living room.
And in the center of it — was my wife.
Completely focused.
Tongue slightly pressing against the corner of her lip in concentration, eyebrows furrowed like she was performing surgery instead of whatever nonsense this was. I leaned forward and lightly touched one of the folded papers.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Without even looking at me, she slapped my hand away. I withdrew it immediately and looked at her in offense.
She glared at me like I had committed a crime.
“Don’t touch.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“This is my house.”
“And this is my project,” she replied without missing a beat.
I sighed dramatically and sat back down.
“What are you making?” I asked again, watching as she folded another tiny strip of paper with unreasonable seriousness.
“Rings,” she said simply, still focused.
I frowned.
“With paper?”
She nodded, glancing at the YouTube tutorial video playing on her phone, where some overly talented person was apparently creating jewelry out of craft paper like it was normal behavior.
I stared at her.
Then at the paper.
Then back at her.
“Why?”
“We are getting married today,” she announced with full seriousness, still focused on the paper in her hand like she was delivering a legal statement.
I frowned immediately.
“We are already married,” I said, leaning back and watching her like she had finally crossed into complete madness.
She didn’t even look up.
“I forced you to marry me.”
“That is… unfortunately true.”
She nodded proudly, as if that was an achievement.
“So now,” she continued, folding the paper ring with ridiculous concentration, “we are going to get married emotionally.”
I blinked. Even little Sinclair looked like she was reconsidering living with us.
“Emotionally?”
She finally turned to me and held up the ring she had made like it was a priceless diamond from a royal vault.
It was pink. Slightly crooked. And looked like it would not survive basic weather conditions. But she held it with the confidence of a woman presenting destiny itself.
“Yes,” she said proudly. “Emotionally.”
I took the ring from her carefully and examined it.
“This,” I said slowly, “looks like something a five-year-old would exchange for candy.”
She gasped like I had insulted her entire bloodline.
“This is handmade love!”
“This is recycled stationery.”
She slapped my arm.
I laughed and looked at the tiny ring again, and despite every logical thought in my brain—something about it made my chest tighten.
“So,” I asked, watching her with deep concern for my future, “where exactly is this marriage venue?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she picked up a strip of white paper and, with full seriousness, grabbed my hand and pulled it toward her.
I looked down at her.
She was measuring my ring finger. Actually measuring it. Like this was a government-approved ceremony.
“Did you finally reach the peak level of mental illness?” I asked.
She nodded once.
She kept folding the paper with ridiculous concentration, her brows furrowed like she was creating something that belonged in a museum instead of what looked like a slightly aggressive craft project.
I sat there, letting her hold my hand, because somewhere along the way I had stopped fighting these moments.
Maybe because I secretly liked them. Maybe because when she touched me like this—casually, naturally, like I belonged there—it made something quiet settle inside me.
She adjusted the paper around my finger, muttering to herself like a scientist doing dangerous research.
Little Sinclair jumped beside us, watching the entire operation like a disappointed parent.
I looked at the cat.
“See what I deal with?”
The cat blinked slowly.
After a moment, Viyana pulled the paper away, satisfied, and started folding again.
I leaned closer.
“Can I ask something?”
“No.”
“I’m asking anyway.”
She sighed dramatically.
“What?”
“If this is our emotional wedding… does that mean I have to wear proper clothes?”
She finally looked up at me.
“Yes.”
I groaned immediately.
“And you?” I asked, already suspicious of whatever disaster she had planned for herself.
She looked up at me and grinned like a villain with excellent fashion sense.
“I already selected my outfit.”
I looked around at the colored paper, the glue, the scissors, and the tiny paper rings lying like evidence of our shared madness.
Then I looked back at her.
“It feels like,” I said slowly, “you are indirectly telling me that I cannot even afford real rings.”
She groaned dramatically and threw a piece of paper at me.
“Oh my God, stop being dramatic. I am creating memories, okay?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“This feels like financial slander.”
“This feels like emotional intelligence,” she corrected.
Before I could defend myself further, she suddenly stood up with full determination.
“Okay, fine. Rings are ready and now we should get ready.”
I blinked.
“We?”
Too late.
She had already grabbed my arm and was pulling me up like I was an unwilling groom being dragged to destiny.
I stood up slowly, already regretting my life. She dragged me straight inside the room and marched to the wardrobe like a woman on a mission. Shirts came flying out one by one as she inspected them with unnecessary judgment.
“No.”
“No.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why do you own this?”
I stood there in silence as my dignity got folded and thrown aside with the rejected clothes.
Finally, she pulled out a crisp white shirt and threw it directly at my face.
I caught it with deep suffering.
Then she took out a pair of full-length black formal trousers and shoved them into my chest too.
“Go and wear it,” she ordered.
I frowned.
“Where are we going?”
She walked to the door, opened it, and pushed me out. And then—she shut the door in my face.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, wondering if I should run away and start a new life in another country.
I changed quietly, stripping off my old clothes and putting on the crisp white shirt and formal black pants she had chosen like I was preparing for an actual ceremony.
I tucked the shirt neatly into the trousers and stood in front of the mirror, combing my hair, trying to ignore the fact that I was somehow nervous.
For a fake wedding.
I was clearly unwell.
Just then, the door opened and I turned as she walked out. Wearing that white long-sleeved corset dress. The one I had bought for her that day in the mall.
The one I had brought for to compensate the crime of leaving her alone in that shoe shop.
The dress fit her like it had been waiting for her all its life. Soft. Elegant. Dangerous. She looked like trouble wrapped in white. Like peace I didn’t deserve. Like every prayer I never admitted I had.
I bit the inside of my cheek and quickly looked away, scratching the back of my neck like that would somehow save me.
She walked toward me with that soft giggle of hers, the kind that always sounded like trouble dressed as innocence, and lightly tapped my shoulder. I slowly turned around, already preparing myself for a heartattack.
She stood there in front of me, moonlight falling softly through the window behind her, making everything look even more unreal.
Then she twirled once in her dress, the white fabric moving gently around her, and looked at me with that bright smile that could ruin every carefully built wall inside me.
“How do I look?” she asked.
So fucking cute.
Beautiful.
Adorable.
All mine.
I cleared my throat immediately and looked away, because absolutely not.
I refused to let those words leave my mouth and destroy the last piece of self-control I had.
The ridiculous shyness crawled under my skin like I was some teenage boy seeing his crush for the first time instead of a grown man.
I scratched the back of my neck and focused very hard on the wall.
“You look good,” I said, because apparently my brain had decided today was the perfect day to betray me with the vocabulary of a dead fish.
She slowly turned to look at me.
“Good?” she repeated, like she was reading my final crime report.
I blinked.
“Yes?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“So you mean I look ugly?”
“What? No!” I said immediately, turning fully toward her, already realizing I had stepped directly into a trap and willingly locked the door behind me. She folded her arms and turned around dramatically, like a tragic heroine betrayed by love itself.
“Fine. Cancel the wedding,” she muttered. “This relationship has no future.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
“This relationship was built on threats and blackmail. It survived worse.”
“Not this,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Not ‘you look good.’ ”
I sighed and stepped forward quickly before she could continue filing emotional divorce papers. I caught her wrist gently and pulled her back toward me.
She stumbled slightly, ending up closer than either of us pretended to notice.
I looked at her, properly this time.
At the white dress.
At the way she was wearing something I had once bought for her without knowing it would matter this much.
At the way she looked like she had stepped out of every dangerous thought I had ever tried to suppress.
I rubbed my face with my free hand and muttered, half embarrassed and half defeated,
“Give me a moment to process, Viyana.”
She blinked.
I looked away, because eye contact felt like a health risk.
“You came out wearing an outfit I bought for you,” I said, my voice lower now, quieter. “And then you suddenly asked me how you look.”
I let out a breath.
“I need some time to process because my entire nervous system is malfunctioning.”
She laughed as she stepped a little closer.
“So,” she asked quietly, “your nervous system likes the dress?”
“Yes,” I muttered, lowering my gaze because looking at her for too long felt like standing too close to fire.
She looked too beautiful.
Dangerously beautiful.
The kind that made my brain stop functioning and my entire personality reduce itself to awkward silence and unnecessary throat clearing.
I could not stop looking at her — but I also could not properly look at her.
Because every time I did, this stupid shyness crawled all over me like I was some teenager with his first crush instead of a grown man who was supposed to be emotionally stable.
What exactly was happening to me?
I was completely losing my mind.
A small smile played on her lips as she stepped even closer, clearly enjoying my suffering.
“So now,” she said softly, tilting her head, “say how I look.”
I swallowed.
“Describe me,” she added, like she was handing me my final exam and already knew I would fail.
I looked at her.
At the white dress.
At the soft smile.
At the eyes that somehow always made me feel seen in ways I was not prepared for.
“When poets decide to write about you…” I said, my voice lower than before, “even they would get shy and close the book.”
She just stood there in silence, looking at me, and for one terrifying second I thought maybe I had said too much. Maybe I had actually died and this was the afterlife.
“Wow,” she said.
I scratched the back of my neck immediately, already regretting my honesty. She stepped closer, smiling like she had discovered treasure.
“A poet inside a nerd,” she said.
I sighed.
“Please forget I said that.”
“Never.”
“Viyana.”
“I am framing that.”
“Please don’t.”
“I am telling our future daughter.”
I closed my eyes.
“This is why people stay emotionally unavailable.”
She laughed softly, and before I could recover, she reached up and fixed the collar of my white shirt, her fingers brushing my neck so casually that my soul nearly left my body.
She looked up at me.
“And how,” she asked, voice softer now, “did I get so lucky?”
I looked at her for a long second.
Then smiled faintly.
“You threatened me with a gun.”
She chuckled softly, still standing far too close, her fingers playing with the collar of my shirt like she had every right to disturb my peace this casually.
Maybe she did.
I let out a slow breath and tried to regain whatever dignity I still had left.
“Where are we going?” I asked, because clearly I deserved to know where I was being emotionally kidnapped.
Instead of answering immediately, she reached up again and held my collar with unnecessary concentration, smoothing the fabric like I was some badly dressed groom she was trying to rescue. Then, without warning, she grabbed my collar and yanked me closer.
I startled.
She smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing.
“To the beach,”