The decision didn't feel brave.
It felt necessary.
When morning came, the house was already busy. Phone calls rang nonstop. Relatives spoke excitedly about fabrics, venues, food, colors. The wedding my wedding was becoming real again, inch by inch, minute by minute.
Each sound tightened my chest.
I sat quietly at the dining table, my hands folded in my lap, listening as if the conversation belonged to someone else. In my past life, this day had been filled with nervous excitement. I had smiled through my fear, believing marriage would finally make me secure.
Now, I knew better.
"Jon will be here later," my aunt said cheerfully. "We need to finalize"
"I'm not marrying him."
The words fell into the room like glass shattering.
Everyone froze.
My aunt laughed awkwardly, waiting for me to smile and say I was joking. I didn't. My mother slowly set down the cup in her hand. My father looked at me carefully, as though seeing me for the first time.
"I said," I repeated, my voice calm, "I'm not marrying Jon."
Questions erupted immediately.
"What happened?"
"Did you fight?"
"Is someone influencing you?"
I shook my head. "No one is influencing me. This is my decision."
My heart pounded, but I didn't look away. I had learned, painfully, that hesitation invited control.
My father raised a hand, silencing the room. "Everyone, give us a moment."
When we were alone, he asked quietly, "Did he hurt you?"
The memory flashed sharp and fast hands gripping too tightly, words cutting deeper than fists. I swallowed.
"No," I said. "But he will."
My father studied my face for a long time. Then he nodded.
"That's enough for me."
The wedding was canceled within hours.
By evening, the news had spread. Whispers followed my name. Some people called me foolish. Others said I was ungrateful. A few said I would regret this decision for the rest of my life.
I didn't argue.
I knew what regret truly looked like.