The dawnlight crept into the room like a reluctant visitor, its first pale fingers slipping through the gap in the curtains to brush the edge of the bed, then the cluttered table, then the mirror's silver face—but Smithen noticed none of it. His body lay still beneath the rumpled sheets, but his mind was already a storm, spinning so fast the quiet dawn might as well have been a hurricane.
Oh no.
He sat up halfway, elbows sinking into the mattress, a sudden jolt of panic slicing through the giddy fog. If I don't sleep now… His eyes widened, the thought crashing into him with the force of a wave. …I'll get dark circles tomorrow. He pressed his fingers beneath his eyes as if he could will the delicate skin to stay smooth, unblemished. And if I get dark circles… His expression twisted into something almost comically serious, a dramatic intensity that would have made his friends laugh. …I definitely won't be able to attract him—Viran, goosebumps erupted on him at once, feeling a electric erupting into his spine. The name melted on his tongue, sweet and terrifying, and a soft, excited laugh bubbled up from his chest, spilling into the silent room. He covered his face with both hands, fingers tangling in his chaotic hair, and rolled slightly on the bed, a boy drunk on a joy too vast to contain. Tomorrow… he whispered into his palms. Then, correcting himself with a shiver of disbelief, No… today.
But sleep—blessed, necessary sleep—refused him, his dopamine release was so high, that he could not sleep. The clock on his nightstand blinked 2:00 AM in indifferent red digits. He turned to his right, yanked the blanket up to his chin, and squeezed his eyes shut. 1… 2… 3… 4… Numbers marched through his head in a disciplined line, but behind them, a riot of images clamored: Viran's face from the photographs, the angle of his jaw, the cold, unattainable perfection, those red eyes which acts as a magnet, those long fingers of his, his smooth kissable lips. He opened his eyes, groaned, and flipped to his left. 1… 2… 3… The numbers blurred, drowned out by a single thought. Why am I not sleeping?!
His thoughts refused to quiet. They only swelled, voices piling on top of one another. How will Viran react when he sees me? Will he look at me? Really look? Will he say something? What if I look weird? Am I overweight? The last question hit like a dart, and he shot upright again, heart tapping a frantic rhythm. He grabbed the hem of his loose sleep shirt and pulled it taut, staring down at his torso with an almost clinical scrutiny. In the dim lamp glow, he turned his head toward the mirror, tilting his chin, searching for flaws in the soft curve of his reflection. …No… He paused, chewing his lower lip. …Right? A small frown creased his brow. Why am I thinking all this nonsense… Another pause, longer this time, as a shy, tender smile crept back onto his lips. …but still… I want to look good for him. The words were barely a whisper, a secret the darkness held close. He unconsciously bites his own lip, and was touching his own lower lips, which is glossy pinkish.
He flopped back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling's blank expanse, his heart a wild drum, his mind a cage of restless birds. Minutes stretched into an elastic, unbearable eternity, and nothing changed. Finally, Smithen let out a long, defeated breath. I guess… I don't have any other option. Slowly—very slowly—he rolled his eyes to the left. There, half-shrouded in shadow, stood a dark black drawer, quiet and still, a keeper of small secrets. Beside it, the night lamp glowed with a faint golden halo, its light pooling over the drawer as if deliberately, tenderly illuminating it, reminding him of its presence, its purpose.
Smithen stared for a few seconds, his breath shallow. Then, with the resigned gravity of a soldier arming himself, he reached out. The drawer slid open with a soft, low sound that echoed in the silence, and inside lay a small bottle—sleeper tablets. He picked it up with careful fingers, the plastic cool and indifferent. One pill. He placed it on his tongue and swallowed dry, the faint bitterness clinging to the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, waiting for the chemical embrace. Silence. Nothing. His thoughts didn't falter; his heart didn't slow; his body remained taut as a drawn bowstring. …Seriously? He opened his eyes, a flicker of frustration breaking through the dreamy haze. This is nonsense…
He turned his head, gaze falling on the bottle again, the golden light catching its label. I guess I really don't have any other option… His voice was softer now, touched with a tender resolve. I have to look the prettiest groom… standing next to him tomorrow. He took another pill, the motion automatic. Then a thought tugged at the edge of his consciousness, and he blinked once, twice. …Wait. This isn't even the second… A small, almost guilty smile ghosted across his face. …this is the third. The first—he had swallowed earlier, before his mother and brother had even come to him with their earth-shattering news, back when he had already been plunged into a deep, dream-shadowed sleep. He hadn't thought about it then; the pill had been a simple antidote to a restless night. Now, the arithmetic made his smile wry. …Whatever. He swallowed the third tablet, not thinking further, and laid his head back against the pillow.
This time, sleep came. Not gently, but like a heavy velvet curtain dropping. Instant. Complete. The world dissolved into a thick, dreamless nothing, and Smithen's body became a silent, unmoving island in the quiet house.
Morning arrived with a brisk efficiency. 9:00 AM. Downstairs, Arin stood in the foyer, sharp in a precisely tailored jacket, his presence as composed and unruffled as a still lake. "Did Smithen leave?" he asked the maid, the question casual, carrying the easy assumption of a man who had raised a younger brother to be, if nothing else, punctual for life's monumental moments.
The maid hesitated, her hands pausing over the morning tray. "I'm not sure, sir… I haven't seen him." She paused again, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "Should I check his room? Usually we don't disturb him on weekends… but today is—"
Arin cut her off with a chuckle, a low, confident sound. "He must have left early." A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, equal parts fondness and exasperation. "He wouldn't have the audacity to sleep today." With a dismissive wave, he sealed the decision. "No need to check." And just like that, the car doors closed, engines purred, and they were gone, leaving behind a house that held its breath, oblivious to the disaster slumbering upstairs.
9:40 AM. Mabthi Auditorium stood grand and silent, its high ceilings swallowing the hushed murmur of the few gathered. The floral arrangements were a symphony of white and gold; soft fabric draped the altar, and candles flickered with a restrained, expectant glow. But the hall had too much silence. No crowd buzzed with anticipation, no rustle of guests filled the air—only a priest, a handful of stone-faced bodyguards, Viran's mother, elegant and unreadable, Smithen's mother, poised but with tension threading her jaw, and Arin, pacing with the controlled fury of a man watching a plan unravel. One absence screamed louder than any noise. Smithen.
Arin checked his watch again, the motion sharp. "Why isn't he here?" The calls went out, one after another, each ring met with a mocking, unanswered void. The tension thickened, a tangible thing pressing against the chests of those who waited. "Call the house," Arin ordered, his voice clipped. The assistant dialed, and the maid's nervous voice crackled through the line. "Hello, Arin sir—"
"Is Smithen in his room?" the assistant cut in, urgency bleeding through.
"I'll check—" The maid's footsteps pounded up the stairs, a frantic staccato that mirrored her racing heart. She reached the door, threw it open, and froze. Smithen lay tangled in the sheets, his breathing deep and even, a picture of oblivious peace. "Oh my god…" The words escaped her like a prayer.
"What?!" Smithen's mother's voice sliced through the speaker, sharp with disbelief.
"Wake him up immediately!" Arin's shout was a thunderclap. "Tell him to come here in ten minutes—two-wheeler, anything! If he takes a car, he won't make it!"
The maid rushed forward, her hand shaking his shoulder. "Young master!"
Smithen jerked awake as if pulled from a vacuum, his eyes flying open, confusion clouding them. "What…?" His voice was thick, slurred by the remnants of the pills. "What time is it?"
"9:40!"
Silence. A heartbeat. Then the world exploded into motion. "What the hell?!" He didn't say another word. He ran, bare feet slapping the cold floor, straight to the bathroom. The water he splashed on his face was fast, cold, brutally awakening. He didn't look in the mirror—no time, no thought—only action. The suit his mother had left hung like a promise of glory: a golden ensemble rich as a sunrise, embroidered with threads of platinum and gold, diamond buttons glinting like captured stars. He pulled it on in a frenzy—quickly, messily. The shirt remained half-untucked, the collar a forgotten, crumpled halo. One shoe was on his foot, the other clutched in his hand, no socks, nothing but raw desperation.
He burst out of the house, scanning for a two-wheeler that wasn't there, and his eyes landed on the maid's two-wheeler—the only vehicle that can make him escape the cruel traffic. He grabbed it, the metal cold under his palms, started the engine, and sped off. The wind struck his face with a sharp, stinging fury, tearing away the last cobwebs of sleep. His heart raced wildly, a beast caged by a single, repeating mantra: Don't be late… don't be late… don't be late…
10:07 AM. The tires screeched as he skidded to a halt outside the auditorium. He was breathing heavily, every gulp of air a fire in his lungs. His hair was a windswept disaster, his golden suit creased and slightly crooked, one shoe still dangling from his hand, and his chest heaved with the effort of his mad flight. And then—he saw him.
Viran stood at the altar like a sculpture carved from a frozen star. He wore the same suit, but on him it was immaculate, the lines clean, the fabric uncreased, every detail sharp and untouchable as an obsidian blade. He didn't fidget; he didn't shift. The world could have crumbled, and he would have remained standing, perfectly composed. But beneath that flawless surface radiated something else—a dangerous aura, cold and heavy as a winter tide, something that stilled the air and made the few witnesses hold their breath. Smithen froze, his legs rooted to the marble floor. His gaze locked onto Viran, and it didn't move. Not once. Not when he stumbled forward, not when he fumbled the other shoe onto his bare foot, not when the ceremony began in a businesslike murmur. He didn't hear the priest's intonations; he only saw the severe line of Viran's jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, the way the light seemed to bend around him like a shield.
Even when he stepped forward, even when the rings were exchanged—a cool band of metal sliding onto his trembling finger—Smithen never stopped looking at him. His eyes were wide, luminous, filled with a devotion so absolute it was almost painful to witness. Viran, for his part, didn't look back. Not once. His gaze flicked to his wristwatch, and a faint, impatient furrow creased his brow. "…Let's proceed," he said, the words clipped, a command rather than a request.
The ceremony moved with the sterile efficiency of a contract signing. Rings. A few murmured words. No conversation. No pause. Smithen's hand trembled slightly, but his eyes remained on Viran, drinking him in, marveling at the reality of him—the way the morning light kissed the angles of his face, the way his presence seemed to swallow the room. A single photograph was taken, the camera's click a lonely, final punctuation. And then Viran spoke, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade through silk. "Is it done?" A pause, barely a breath. "Can I leave now?"
Smithen didn't react. Not because he didn't hear, but because he was still utterly, hopelessly lost in the act of looking. He is my husband. That single thought swelled inside him, filling every hollow space, every lonely corner of his heart. It was a thought so immense it left no room for hurt or confusion. Viran turned, his movements fluid and final, and left without another word, without a backward glance. And still, Smithen's eyes followed him, clinging to the retreating silhouette of those broad shoulders until the heavy doors closed and there was nothing left to see. Only then did he blink, the spell loosening its grip, but the smile that curved his lips remained—soft, radiant, impossibly happy. For him, this was enough.
A gentle voice drew him back. "Don't worry, dear." Viran's mother stood beside him, her presence a warm, steady counterpoint to the cold elegance of the hall. She reached out and softly, maternally, patted his head. "He's a workaholic," she said, her tone kind, as if offering a balm she knew was insufficient. "You don't need to worry." Smithen nodded, the motion mechanical, his smile never faltering. "I've already prepared your wedding house," she continued, her voice carrying a note of careful orchestration. "You both will stay there."
Smithen heard the words, but they reached him as if through water, distant and muted. His mind was still tethered to the vanishing figure of Viran, replaying every second, hording each minute gesture, holding onto that single, glorious moment of proximity. He nodded again, polite and distant, his heart singing a song only he could hear, completely unaware that what awaited him in that house was not the fairy tale his love had painted. The marriage he had just entered was a locked room, and the key, he would soon learn, was not love but a disgust. Because sometimes, loving someone completely is only the beginning of losing yourself, and Smithen was already teetering on the edge of a precipice he couldn't yet see, grinning into the abyss, calling it destiny.