The two weeks disappeared like they were stolen.
One moment, I was staring at myself in the mirror, wearing that gold dress at the engagement party, and the next, I was sitting in the backseat of a car in white lace, driving to my own wedding like I was being taken to my own funeral.
Because that's what it felt like.
Not a celebration. Not a beginning.
A quiet death — of everything I was, everything I wanted to be, everything I would never get to live.
"Smile more," my mother hissed as we arrived at the venue. "You look like someone died."
"Maybe someone did," I muttered.
She didn't ask what I meant. I don't think she wanted to know.
She was too busy adjusting my veil, smoothing down my sleeves, whispering blessings I couldn't even hear. Her eyes were tired, her smile tight. There was something fragile in the way she looked at me, like maybe, for a split second, she realized what she was doing.
Then she turned away and joined the others.
The wedding was loud.
Music, shouting, dancing — the same cycle, again and again.
Relatives I hadn't seen in years pulled me into hugs I didn't want. They called me lucky. Said Noah was a good man. Said I'd be taken care of. Said this was the best day of my life.
But all I could hear was the blood in my ears.
I stood beside him like a doll, answering questions, reciting what I'd been told to memorize, nodding when I was supposed to. The ceremony felt like a blur. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
I didn't cry. I didn't even blink.
I just waited for it to be over.
The car ride to my "new home" was silent.
Noah tried to make small talk. He asked how I was feeling. He called me his wife like it was some sweet word, like I was supposed to be proud of it.
"You're mine now," he said, reaching over to hold my hand.
I didn't pull away.
I just looked out the window and said nothing.
"You'll get used to it," he added. "It's normal to be nervous. First nights are always intense. But I promise I'll be good to you, Layla. You're my wife now. That means something."
It meant nothing to me.
Except maybe that I was trapped.
The house was big, cold, and empty.
I could hear the echo of our footsteps as we walked inside. He showed me around like I was supposed to care about the granite countertops or the leather couch or the king-sized bed in the master bedroom.
All I could think was: I don't belong here. I don't belong to him.
"We're gonna build something beautiful here," he said, standing behind me as I looked at my reflection in the hallway mirror. "You'll learn to love me. You'll see."
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I nodded.
That night, I sat on the edge of the bed and felt like I was 10 years old again. Afraid of the dark. Afraid of the silence. Afraid of the world I had no control over.
He spoke softly, almost kindly. Told me I looked beautiful. Told me he was glad he waited for me to grow up. Told me I was his now.
When I didn't respond, he sighed and said something I'll never forget:
"You're my wife, Layla. That means I have rights over you."
I froze.
I nodded.
Because I didn't know what else to do.
I felt nothing.
I left my body that night — not literally, but in the way a person does when they've run out of ways to protect themselves. I went somewhere quiet in my head. Somewhere far away.
He fell asleep beside me like nothing had happened. Like I was just a thing he'd unpacked and used for the first time.
And I laid there in the dark, curled on my side, holding my breath so I wouldn't cry too loud.
And then the fear crept in. A new kind of fear.
What if I got pregnant?
What if it was a girl?
What if I had to raise a daughter in this world, in this life — just to watch her end up exactly like me?
I didn't want a daughter. I couldn't have a daughter. Not if this was all I had to give her.
I didn't want her to grow up learning how to shrink herself.
Didn't want her to look into my eyes and see resignation.
Didn't want her to carry my name like a curse.
I don't know how long I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.
But eventually, the night passed.
And so did something in me.