He doesn’t fumble. He doesn’t clutch.
He guides you with a tenderness that feels strange on your skin, like your body doesn’t recognize gentleness.
He leans close and speaks low enough that only you can hear.
“Breathe,” he tells you. “You don’t owe them anything.”
The words hit you harder than any insult ever has.
Because no one in your life has treated your existence like something you’re allowed to keep.
You swallow and force your feet forward, step by step, toward vows you’re not sure you deserve.
At the altar, you can feel the room inspecting you even through the veil.
Your mother’s eyes are glossy, but her gaze slides away from your cheek whenever it drifts too near.
Your father stands stiff, relieved, like he just closed a deal.
Mateo’s face stays calm, and you cling to the idea that he can’t see what everyone else sees.
The ceremony blurs.
Words about love and honor float past you like smoke.
Your hands ache from gripping the bouquet too tightly, the stems biting your palms.
When you say “I do,” your voice sounds like a stranger’s.
The hotel room that night is warm, quiet, expensive in a way that makes you feel like you don’t belong.
You keep the lights off.
You keep the veil on longer than you should.
You tell yourself you’re doing it to be romantic, to stretch the moment.
But the truth is simpler.
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