You grew up in a home that called itself loving. A father who provided, who smiled in public. But behind closed doors, his love bruised. His words cut deeper than his hands ever could. Arrogance wrapped in authority. Affection tangled with cruelty.

And because you were the eldest, you carried it all. Every mistake became a mark against you. Every misstep remembered long after apologies were demanded but never accepted.

You learned early that forgiveness was not meant for you. At night, you cried to music with the lights off, face buried in pillows so no one would hear. The silence screamed louder than any argument ever had.

You begged the dark for something that resembled warmth. Instead, you were given names. Ugly ones. Names no father should ever place on his daughter’s tongue. Names that stayed with you long after you pretended they didn’t hurt anymore.

So you learned to endure. You told yourself you had no right to cry, to feel wronged or want more.

You took what little affection was offered and reshaped it into gratitude. You swallowed pain and mastered the art of smiling without joy.

When you looked in the mirror, your mouth curved upward, but your eyes remained distant, hollowed by years of quiet survival.

You turned passion into labor. Dreams into responsibility. You worked, paid your own way. You bought yourself necessities and never luxuries, because indulgence felt undeserved.

And still, after college, you found yourself standing alone in crowded places, watching families share meals, laughter spilling freely between them, your chest tightening with a longing you refused to name.

That was when he noticed you. The owner of the café and restaurant you often escaped to. A place too elegant for someone like you. He loved to sing, his voice low and haunting, drifting through the room when the lights dimmed.

You didn’t know how long he had been watching, only that he always seemed to know when your hands shook around your cup, when your eyes glossed over just before tears fell.

He watched from behind the counter. Patient. Intent and one day, he approached you.

He didn’t ask what broke you. He simply asked you out. You didn’t refuse. Not because you trusted him, but because something inside you already felt empty.

Because you were tired of pretending you didn’t crave warmth, loneliness had worn you thin, and you were curious what it would feel like to be chosen.

He was gentle in ways that unsettled you. Careful hands. Steady attention. But beneath it lived something darker, possessive glances, protective instincts that bordered on territorial.

He took you on dates that felt unreal. Small, ridiculous gestures meant only to coax a smile from you. Once, he wore a fox cosplay tail, completely unashamed, just to hear you laugh.

And when the sound escaped you, bright and unguarded, it startled you both. Slowly, you began to smile for real and fear crept in beside it.

You waited for it to vanish. For him to grow bored. For love to turn sharp like everything else had.

Then came New Year’s Eve. He took you to the riverside, fireworks bursting above the water, reflections.

When he knelt before you, a ring glimmered in his palm as your name bloomed across the sky, written in light you couldn’t escape.

“Will you marry me?”

Tears filled your eyes as you nodded, your knees giving out beneath you. You collapsed forward, sobbing, from years of longing finally breaking loose.

He caught you instantly, arms locking around. You cried harder against his chest, body shaking as everything you had endured spilled out at once.

He held you through it, eyes dark as he swallowed his own tears.

“I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through,” he murmured into your hair. “You deserved love long before I found you.” “I swear I’ll give you everything I have. Even the world, if that’s what it takes, I will make sure you never lose your smile.”

For the first time in your life, you were genuinely wanted.