I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my gaze flicking over every detail of my face. My cheeks are flushed with a nervous warmth, my lips still red, though I know the color will fade as the hours pass. I cup my face gently, as if searching for something—anything—some sign of beauty, some trace of what people might call "grace."
But nothing changes. I still see the girl I've always been: the girl who's never enough, not pretty enough, not confident enough. A faint pang of doubt twists in my stomach, and I turn the faucet, washing my face again with cold water. Maybe this time, it'll make a difference. Maybe the smoothness of the cream will hide the anxiety that clings to my skin. Maybe—just maybe—I'll finally see something worth liking.
But I don't.
I wipe my face dry and let the mirror reflect my tired, uncertain eyes. My fingers shake slightly as I rub the moisturizer in. The silence of the room feels heavy, suffocating, as I breathe in the calming scent of lavender and rose. But it does little to ease the storm in my chest.
Tonight. This is it.
The first night. The one everyone talks about—the night that's supposed to be special, intimate, the start of something real.
I shut my eyes, taking in a shaky breath. This is my first night as a wife. Mrs. Calyxander Lockhorst. I try to repeat it in my head like a mantra, but the words fall flat against my consciousness. They sound hollow—empty. The reality of it is nothing like I dreamed when I was younger.
Ten years ago, I imagined this night with fluttering excitement, full of anticipation. Back then, I thought I would feel joy, wonder, some kind of undeniable bond with the person who would become my husband. I thought it would be a fairytale. But now that I'm standing here, it feels... foreign. Uncertain. A far cry from what I once envisioned.
I catch a glimpse of myself again, just for a second, before I turn away. That girl in the mirror isn't me. I don't know who she is, and I'm not sure I want to.
Calyx... He's a stranger, even though we've been married for weeks. We don't speak the way I imagined couples would. We don't share glances full of love or tenderness. Our marriage is a formality—an arrangement, a contract, a commitment with no emotional foundation. I didn't expect it to be perfect, but I thought it would feel... something. Not this.
I stand there for a long moment, paralyzed by my thoughts.
I made a vow to myself before the ceremony, to him, and to God. A promise I keep repeating like a silent prayer every day. I will never make him regret this. Even though I can already feel that he does. I can sense it in the way he doesn't look at me the same way anymore. I can feel the distance stretching between us, stretching further and further the more I try to bridge it.
I breathe in deeply and walk over to the closet, choosing something simple but comfortable. A loose T-shirt, cotton pajamas—nothing fancy. I can't bring myself to wear the sexy nightie I bought for this night. What's the point? It would be a lie. It wouldn't change the way he sees me, and more than anything, I need him to see me—not just the role I'm filling, not just the wife he's stuck with.
I need to stop expecting anything more. I'm just his wife now, and that should be enough.
After I change, I step out of the bathroom, and the silence of the room feels louder than it should. I glance over at the laptop on the table. His work—always his work—sits untouched in front of me. But as I pass through the room, I notice the shadow of him through the veranda door. His silhouette, still and distant.
Before we were married, I was never far from him. I stayed close, hovering like a shadow, trying to get his attention, to matter, to be seen. Even when he was distant and cold. Even when he cursed my very existence. I stayed. Because that's who I am. That was me. Severa Trexler, now Severa Lockhorst.
I stop, leaning against the doorframe, fighting the urge to run to him, to pull him into a hug or a kiss—anything to feel like we're connected, like we're something real. But I don't. Not tonight. I promised myself I wouldn't burden him with my feelings. He doesn't need that. Not from me.
A bitter smile edges onto my lips. It's hard to deny it anymore—this was never a fairytale.
It's not supposed to be, but... that doesn't stop the ache.
I crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing thoughts, but they won't stop. I can't shake the feeling that something is slipping through my fingers. Everything feels out of my control, and I can't fight it. I want so badly for him to notice me, to want me. But I know that's not what this is about. This is duty. A promise. A marriage of convenience.
Minutes pass in silence. And then, finally, Calyx steps inside, his footsteps soft but heavy with his own thoughts. He goes straight to the bathroom, his back turned to me.
The routine. The ritual. The distance. It's all too familiar.
I roll over, my eyes glued to the ceiling. A wave of emotion crashes over me, so overwhelming it feels like I might drown in it. I'm scared. I'm scared that this—this emptiness—might be all there ever is. I feel lost, uncertain. I promised him I would give him peace. But all I feel is an aching desire for something more.
But I won't ask for it. I won't beg for attention.
I whisper the vow to myself again, barely audible, as if saying it out loud would make it less true. I want to say it loud enough for him to hear, but I can't. It's a promise I made for me—for my own peace of mind, for my own fragile sense of self.
"I vow to be your wife. Just your wife. I vow to respect you, to keep my distance, and to support you, even if it means ignoring my own feelings. I vow to give you peace and stop being a nuisance, like I was before the 'I dos.' I vow to remain faithful, loyal, and to let you go if you ever ask me to. And above all, I vow to love you, even if you never love me in return."
The words hang in the air, thick with the weight of what they mean. And just as they leave my lips, the bathroom door swings open.
His eyes meet mine in the dim light, and my heart stutters in my chest. I quickly grab my pillow, instinctively pulling it to my chest as I sit up, feeling the familiar sting of shame in my throat. The urge to protect myself, to protect him from the truth, is too strong.
Without a word, I leave the bed and move to the sofa, curling up in the corner like I've done so many times before—because it's easier this way. Because it's the only way I know how to show him that I respect his space.
I know he's surprised by my actions. Maybe confused, maybe even annoyed. But this is the way I show my gratitude for marrying me. I will never trap him in a life he doesn't want.
I close my eyes, the weight of the night pressing down on me. The silence stretches between us, filling the room with all the things unsaid, things neither of us dares to speak aloud.