Today is going to be the greatest day of my life. I can say that with absolute certainty, even though my life has been a long string of "greatest days" in its own way. But this… this is different. Today, I get to marry her. The girl I've known since we were six, the girl who somehow managed to become both my anchor and my reason to keep going when life got complicated. The girl who, for better or worse, holds my heart entirely.
I sit on the edge of my bed in my apartment, adjusting my tie with the precision that my family has drilled into me over the years. The reflection in the mirror shows a young man who's dressed impeccably, every strand of dark hair seemingly in its place, eyes sharp and observant. I should feel nervous, but all I feel is this overwhelming warmth. The kind that curls around your chest and refuses to leave. I'm smiling before I even see her today.
Because today is hers as much as mine. And as I think of her, I can't help but drift backward. Not too far — not into memories of the fancy halls of my childhood home, or the distant business meetings that defined most of my teenage years — but to the moments that truly mattered. To her. To us.
We met when we were six. And when I say "met," I don't mean the kind of casual hello that passes in the hallways of elementary school. I mean the kind of meeting that rewires your entire existence. She had been the new girl, bright-eyed, curious, a little mischievous. I remember her sitting on the swings alone while everyone else ran off to play tag, the tips of her small fingers brushing the chains as if she were counting invisible stars.
I hesitated. I was a quiet kid, observing more than participating, the kind of child who worried too much about rules and about doing things the right way. But something about her… something about the way her eyes caught the sunlight, glimmering like she already knew secrets of the world I hadn't even imagined… I walked over.
"Hi," I said, uncertainly.
She turned and smiled — not the polite smile people give strangers, but the kind that reaches your chest. "Hi! Do you want to play?"
And just like that, everything began.
We started small, of course. Tag, hide-and-seek, building little forts in the corner of the playground, exchanging stickers and small trinkets. I remember the first time she let me pick my favorite hiding spot — I was so proud, like she had entrusted me with the keys to a kingdom I hadn't even known existed. But the moment I heard her laugh echoing through the playground, I knew. I knew then that I would spend forever trying to make her smile.
It was during these early years that we discovered the game that would come to define our childhood. The otome game — silly, over-the-top, full of drama, romance, and ridiculous plot twists — became our secret world. We didn't just play it. We lived it.
I can remember the first time she challenged me to pick the "right" path. I had chosen a route that led the heroine to a character I secretly thought was boring. She caught me in the act. "No! You can't do that! You don't even understand him!" she shouted, her small hands planted firmly on her hips, eyes wide with mock outrage. I tried to argue, tried to defend my choice, but she simply shook her head, her brown hair swinging with her tiny gesture.
"You have to see the heart of the story," she said. "You have to feel it!"
And I did. Because in that moment, I was seeing not just a character, but her — the way she saw the world, the way she cared enough to push me, to make me think differently. Every argument, every laugh, every tiny victory in that game was a thread weaving us closer together.
Even when life pulled us apart — when my father's business trips kept me from school for days, when she had family obligations that I couldn't attend, when we had to communicate through letters, phone calls, or quick messages on some early online system — that game kept us tethered. It wasn't just pixels and storylines; it was our bond. It was us.
By the time we were teenagers, we'd grown inseparable. The world around us — classmates, teachers, even family — seemed to fade into background noise when we were together. We'd spend evenings in our respective homes, headphones on, screens glowing, laughing at our ridiculous choices, celebrating our small victories, lamenting over our "failures." And somehow, every time we argued about which route was better, every time we teased and pushed each other, I felt the truth: I would follow her anywhere, even into the stories she loved.
Of course, high school wasn't all perfect. My family's wealth and influence — the so-called "Duke family" of Tokyo, as some of my friends joked — made certain things complicated. I had responsibilities that kept me busy: meetings, networking, tutoring in etiquette, preparing for entrance exams that would inevitably cement my path into the family business. There were times I missed her, missed playing, missed simply being with her. But we always found our way back to the game, back to each other.
Even now, on the cusp of marriage, I can remember the nights we stayed up talking about the routes, the endings, the characters we loved or hated. She would scold me for choosing the "bad" options, and I would argue endlessly, just to see her laugh. And that laughter — God, it has never left me. It will never leave me.
As I stand now, adjusting the last folds of my tie, I can't help but grin. Today isn't just a ceremony. Today is the culmination of every single small moment, every laugh, every shared secret, every tiny adventure in that game, every promise we made beneath the stars in our little worlds. It's all leading to her. To us.
I glance at the small gift she left me last night. A tiny charm, shaped like a star, delicately carved and shimmering faintly in the morning light. I don't remember if she said it was a promise or just a keepsake. I don't care. To me, it is a symbol of everything we've shared, everything we've built together. Everything we've survived — even before we knew the word "survival" existed.
It's funny, isn't it? How life works that way. How the threads of something so small, so seemingly trivial — a game, a promise, a laugh — can shape the entire course of your existence. I used to think it was magic. Maybe it was. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe it was just… her. Always her.
I remember the first time I realized something had shifted between us — when I wasn't just protecting her out of friendship, but out of something deeper. We had been playing the game late one evening, our little laptops side by side, arguing over a choice that would determine the heroine's ending. She leaned over my shoulder, pointing at the screen, her small hand brushing mine ever so slightly.
"Don't you see?" she said. "You're supposed to pick the path where he trusts her. You're supposed to care about her heart, not just the outcome."
And I froze. Not because of the game, not because of the story, but because I realized that… I did care. About her heart. About her. Always.
Those moments, the long nights of laughter, the silly arguments, the quiet understanding — they were the foundation of everything. And now, years later, as I prepare to see her walking down the aisle, I know that foundation is unshakable. Nothing can break it. Not the pressures of family, not the weight of expectation, not even the world itself.
The sun streams through the window, warming my skin and casting a soft glow on the star charm. I slip it into my pocket, careful not to disturb its delicate surface. And I think of her. Of her smile, of her laugh, of the way her eyes always seemed to see the truth I tried to hide from myself.
I remember the small adventures we had outside the game too — riding our bikes through the neighborhood, exploring the park, trading comic books and snacks, inventing our own little stories that no one else would ever understand. We were fearless together, unbreakable together. And even when life tried to pull us apart, we always found our way back.
Today, I will see her in a dress I know will take my breath away. Today, I will hold her hand and promise to continue this journey, together, for the rest of our lives. Today, I will look at the girl I've known since I was six, the girl who has been my constant, my confidante, my heart… and I will remember everything that led us here.
Because this day isn't just a wedding. It's the culmination of a lifetime of laughter, of shared secrets, of battles fought over a game that connected us when the world tried to pull us apart. It's the proof that love — real, unwavering, unbreakable love — exists, even in the smallest moments.
I take a deep breath, smoothing the last wrinkle from my sleeve. The city outside hums with life, indifferent to the significance of this day. But I don't care. Because nothing else matters except her. And as I step toward the door, I know — with the certainty of someone who has loved and been loved for more than half his life — that nothing in the world could ever change that.
Today is going to be the greatest day of my life. And for the first time, I truly believe it.