Christmas came and went in a blur of soft lights and quiet laughter.

We didn't go anywhere that day, no parties, no grand dinners, no Moreau-sized spectacles. Just the two of us, tangled in blankets, half-watching movies, half-dozing off between mugs of cocoa. The kind of day that makes you forget the world exists outside your living room.

Even the New Year felt the same, it was calm, intimate, ours.

Marina and Trent had decided to join us last minute, after cutting short their Mount Keira getaway. Apparently, Marina realized halfway through that mountain hiking and cold showers weren't part of her ideal "romantic escape." Trent swore he didn't mind, but I could tell from his expression when they arrived that he'd rather wrestle a bear than say it out loud.

The four of us spent the evening playing board games that Val somehow managed to turn into psychological warfare. She accused Trent of cheating in Monopoly, Marina accused Val of gaslighting her, and I just sat there, trying to count how many glasses of wine it would take before everyone stopped pretending to care who owned Mayfair.

It was chaotic. Loud. Unfiltered.

And somehow, it was perfect.

When Val finally went back to London in early January, I told myself it wouldn't be so bad this time.

I was wrong, obviously.

Okay, partly wrong. But it wasn't like the first time she left. Because this time, it wasn't goodbye... It was see you soon.

We'd gotten through worse. I figured this was just another chapter before the next beginning.

By June, that next beginning finally came.

Not the next month — the next year.

A year after that quiet Christmas, when everything still felt simple and full of promise.

I'd done it, moved into my own apartment.

Not a cramped one-bedroom like before, but an actual, full-grown, "my paycheck might finally be worth something" apartment in the heart of the city.

A balcony with a skyline views, actual counter space in the kitchen, and a water heater that didn't sound like it was dying.

It wasn't just an upgrade in address, it was proof. Proof that the long nights, the coffee-fueled study sessions, and every ounce of effort I'd poured into chasing this career had finally paid off.

Gray & Milton had taken me on straight out of school, and now, two years later, I'd worked my way up to Senior Financial Analyst.

Me.

The guy who used to live off instant noodles and five-dollar meal deals.

Tasha — yeah, that Tasha — had climbed the ladder too. She'd been promoted to Project Lead, and even though we'd both silently agreed to keep things strictly professional, I had to admit, she'd earned it. She was good.

Sometimes too good.

---

When I moved in that June, Val was back in the country too — done with her Master's, finally.

She'd finished strong, of course. Top of her class, glowing recommendations, the kind of final project that probably made half the department question their career choices. Typical Val.

Seeing her walk through the airport that day, hair loose, sunglasses perched on her head, suitcase trailing behind like it owed her something, it hit me just how much time had passed.

She looked the same… and yet different. More polished. More sure of herself.

Maybe London had changed her a little, or maybe she'd just finally grown into the version of herself the rest of us had always seen coming.

The weeks that followed were some of the best I'd had in a long time.

She'd spend most days over at my place, curled up on the couch with her laptop while I worked on reports or conference calls. Sometimes she'd fall asleep mid-sentence, the soft hum of city noise filling the space around us.

For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was chasing time.

We had dinner together. We watched movies halfway through before she claimed the plot was predictable and switched to documentaries, something about the evolution of economic systems or maybe marine life, I don't even remember.

But ten minutes later, she was back to the movie again, muttering under her breath that documentaries were boring.

Typical Val — brilliant enough to outsmart the world, impatient enough to get bored doing it.

It was… simple. Easy.

And that kind of peace, coming from someone like Val, felt like a miracle.

---

That night, she told me her parents wanted her to start working at Moreau Dynamics,"for experience," they said.

But I could tell from the way she avoided eye contact that it wasn't just a suggestion.

"Temporary," she told me.

But temporary stretched into weeks. Then months.

And I didn't mind, not really. She was happy. Fulfilled. Doing what she loved, or at least what she was good at.

I was proud — stupidly, fiercely proud — even if a small part of me hated how easily she slipped into that world again. The one made of marble floors, designer suits, and people who never needed to check their bank balances.

Still, we found our rhythm.

We had our Sunday mornings, our late-night calls, our quiet promises about the future.

We even had us — still laughing, still fighting, still choosing each other every day.

---

And then, one day, we decided to get married.

No long engagement. No "someday." Just… now.

It wasn't small. It wasn't quiet.

Val made sure of that.

If her parents wouldn't bless the wedding, she was going to make it impossible for them to ignore it. The venue overlooked the city skyline, the hall glowing in gold and white. She walked down the aisle in a gown that shimmered under the lights — elegant, commanding, breathtaking.

And yet, all I could see was her.

Her parents came, which was a surprise in itself.

Her mother smiled like it cost her something, leaned close, and whispered,

"Let's see how long this little fantasy lasts."

Then she kissed Val's cheek and walked away.

Her father didn't say a word. Just raised his glass once during the reception and left.

It stung, not because I needed their approval, but because I could see how much she wanted it, even if she'd never admit it.

Still, we went ahead.

Trent stood beside me, proud and grinning like a fool. Marina cried during the vows. Derrick officiated (still the best questionable decision we ever made). Priya nearly screamed when Val walked out. Even Tasha came — with someone new — and smiled when she saw us together. Avery, surprisingly, showed up too, quiet but sincere.

Duchess fell asleep on my suit jacket halfway through dinner.

And then there was Lucien — the only Moreau who'd stood by us from the start. He didn't make a speech or a scene, just clapped me on the shoulder before the ceremony and said,

"You make her happy. That's all that ever mattered."

It wasn't much, but in a room full of tension disguised as elegance, it meant everything.

When Val took my hand, everything else disappeared. The music, the people, the tension in the air — gone.

We said "I do" softly — no grand gestures, no promises shouted into the sky.

Just two people who had already chosen each other long before this day ever arrived.

When we kissed, she whispered, "You're stuck with me now." and I believed her.

Because she was my wife.

The woman I'd met in the rain, fought through finals with, built dreams beside.

I'd never felt luckier in my life.

---

A year later, luck looked a little different.

Our house — not an apartment anymore, but a sleek three-bedroom on the edge of the city — was everything we'd ever talked about.

Bright. Modern. Filled with plants she swore she'd keep alive.

Her office was upstairs. Mine was by the window overlooking the skyline.

On paper, everything looked perfect.

But perfection has a strange way of turning quiet.

She started working longer hours.

So did I.

At first, it was easy to laugh about it. "We're both overachievers," she'd joke, kissing me on the cheek before leaving for another late meeting.

But the late meetings turned into business dinners. And the business dinners turned into trips.

Sometimes, I'd wake up in the middle of the night to find her side of the bed cold.

Sometimes, she'd come home so tired she'd barely talk.

And when she did, her words came out clipped, careful — like everything we said had to pass through some invisible filter first.

I told myself it was temporary. Just stress. Just work. But the silence between us kept getting heavier, like air before a storm.

One evening, I came home late from the office. The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Her shoes were by the door, her coat draped neatly over the chair.

She was sitting on the couch, laptop open, typing away. Her hair was tied up, face in a pout as she glared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her — a look I used to find impossibly cute.

"Hey," I said softly.

She looked up, smiled — that polite kind of smile you give to a colleague.

> "Hey. You ate?"

"Not yet," I said. "You?"

She shook her head. "Not hungry."

I nodded.

The silence stretched between us again — comfortable in theory, suffocating in practice.

After a while, I sat down beside her. "You've been busy lately."

She paused her typing. "So have you."

"Yeah, but… I still try to—"

She closed the laptop gently and looked at me. Her eyes were tired, but not in a way sleep could fix.

> "Let's not do this tonight, Kai."

It wasn't angry neither was it cold. It was worse.

It was indifferent.

She got up, kissed my forehead, and whispered, "Goodnight."

And just like that, she was gone upstairs.

I sat there in the dark, listening to the faint creak of the stairs, wondering when home stopped feeling like home.

Everything looked perfect on paper — the job, the house, the marriage.

But somehow, somewhere along the line, the space between us had grown wide enough to feel like two separate worlds.

I stared at our wedding photo on the shelf.

She was smiling — radiant, carefree, untouchable — just like the girl I fell in love with.

Me?

I looked like a man who believed forever was a promise carved in stone.

Maybe it still was.

Maybe we'd just forgotten how to read it.

Either way, I could feel it now, the shift. The silence. The beginning of something I didn't know how to name.

And as I sat there, in the quiet hum of our perfect house, I realized something I hadn't said aloud in a long time.

Something I'd buried under the weight of titles and timelines and pretending everything was fine.

We were still together.

Still married.

Still in love — maybe.

But somehow, somewhere, we'd forgotten how to be us.

---

To be continued...

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