The first morning of marriage arrived quietly.
Sunlight slipped through the curtains, painting the room in gold.
Debbie opened her eyes.
Beside her, Felix slept peacefully, one arm draped over the blanket, his wedding ring catching the morning light.
Outside, the city was waking.
Inside, there was only stillness.
This, she thought, must be what forever feels like.
No grand declarations.
No dramatic moments.
Just two people, side by side, with an entire life waiting for them.
She smiled and reached for his hand.
And then
The room faded.
The sunlight softened.
The ring disappeared.
There was no wedding.
No shared home.
No certainty of forever.
There was only a memory.
A quiet morning from long ago.
She lay awake while dawn slowly filled the room.
Beside her, he stirred.
Without opening his eyes, he reached across the bed, his hand searching through the sheets until it found hers.
His fingers wrapped around her hand naturally, instinctively.
Then he settled again, still asleep.
As though some part of him simply needed to know she was there.
She remembered not moving.
Not even a little.
Afraid the moment would end.
Afraid that if she let go, morning would come too quickly.
Years later, she would remember that moment more clearly than entire seasons of her life.
A hand reaching for hers.
A sleepy squeeze.
The quiet comfort of being found, even in someone's dreams.
Perhaps that was why stories ended with weddings.
Because real life rarely gives us perfect endings.
So we write them ourselves.
We imagine the mornings that never happened.
The rings we never wore.
The forevers that existed only in our hearts.
Outside, the sun continued to rise.
And somewhere between memory and imagination, she smiled.
Because some stories are not meant to be lived.
They are simply meant to be cherished.
Like a sunrise.
Like a hand reaching for yours in the dark.
Like a beautiful secret that belongs only to you.