Orion had a very long dream.
The first thing he saw was 19–year–old Aurora.
Back then, the department was recruiting new members. He was the president, poised and decisive, while she was a new recruit, bright-eyed and eager, trying to make an impression. The team had decided to celebrate the occasion at an upscale French restaurant, a place so elegant it practically whispered prestige.
When the sommelier approached, Aurora completely froze, caught off guard by the ritual she had no idea existed. She didn't know she was supposed to taste the wine first, nod to approve it, and present a polished composure. Her fingers fidgeted with the napkin, her face paling with a mix of panic and embarrassment.
Someone at the next table snickered, and the sound, small as it was, struck her like a bell.
The flush spread instantly from her ears down her slender neck, disappearing beneath the crisp collar of her white shirt. Mortified as she was, she didn't shrink away. Instead, she lifted her chin slightly, met everyone's eyes, and admitted with a sheepish yet sincere grin, "Sorry, I grew up on instant noodles and food stamps. I've never been to a place like this."
Her honesty, her unguarded, self-deprecating humor, made Orion pause, long before he consciously realized it. There was something about her—bright, fearless, unpretentious—that set her apart even in a room filled with polished new hires.
Later on, this girl who had never stepped foot in a fine dining restaurant, who had once twisted her ankle in kitten heels trying to keep up, would become a force in her own right. She learned to stride through the chaos of New York City in stilettos as if the streets themselves were her runway.
Orion loved and cherished that rare sincerity and tenacity in her. From the very beginning, there had been something unpolished yet magnetic about her—something that made him want to protect her, to guard that fragile spark of courage and hope she carried.
So he became her anchor, letting her find balance and safety in his presence. He made himself indispensable, a pillar she could rely on without fear of faltering.
But time, as it always does, introduced subtle changes. He became like one of those heroes in primetime dramas—the man who marries the woman he loves and swears to protect her so fiercely that she no longer needs to be strong herself.
His vow to shield her was genuine, born from love and care, but it came at a cost he hadn't anticipated.
When Aurora reached out to him, seeking love and affirmation, he was too caught up in the problems he was facing.
He began to forget what made Aurora special in the first place. She had always been his equal, capable of standing beside him in strength, wit, and determination. But he buried her independence under the weight of his self-righteousness, believing that carrying all burdens alone was the way to secure their future.
He convinced himself that the sacrifices he made silently, the compromises he forced upon himself, were for their shared happiness. But in doing so, he ignored the present—the fleeting, fragile moments that truly built a life together.
Aurora's anxieties, her doubts, her small daily struggles—they all went unnoticed or unacknowledged. And as she faded under the strain of his protection, he failed to realize the damage he had caused.
People are not meant to be caged in comfort; strength comes from moving through life's challenges, from testing one's limits. His role should have been to guide her, to let her explore and grow while knowing she could always lean on him when she needed support.
Instead, he tried to restrain her. He clipped her wings, even if unintentionally, shaking her confidence and leaving her questioning her worth. He loved her, yes, but he loved her the wrong way. His care had been suffocating, his protection a cage, his devotion a source of silent torment.
Over and over, in the quiet spaces of his mind, he prayed, wishing he could undo the mistakes, rewrite the past, find a way to love her correctly. Every time, he replayed the moments when he could have been gentler, more honest, more present, and he cringed at his own stubbornness.
And then came the light—a shining bright light that pierced the darkness that had enveloped him, a signal that perhaps the world had given him another chance. Amid the haze, the last words he heard lingered in his mind, fragile and desperate: "Just… don't leave me like this."
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The sterile white of the hospital room seemed blinding at first, but then he saw her—Aurora—sitting quietly at his bedside.
'If Aurora forgives me, that would be best. If Aurora doesn't forgive me, that's fine too,' he thought to himself.
He reached for her hand, trembling slightly, as if testing whether the world was real. She didn't pull away.
And in that moment, he understood something deeper than love or pride. He understood the weight of trust, the beauty of patience, and the truth that loving someone sometimes meant letting them be free—even if it hurt him.
He whispered, barely audible, "I'm here… I won't leave this time."