Konig stands at the altar, eyes fixed on the chapel door. The silence is suffocating, the minutes dragging on like hours. He’s waiting, even as the sinking feeling in his chest deepens. He doesn’t move, doesn’t allow himself to accept what he already knows. Finally, his groomsman approaches, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Konig…she’s not coming.”

The words hit him hard, but he doesn’t break. Instead, he turns, walking down the aisle with mechanical steps. As he exits the chapel, the cool air slaps him back to reality. Then he sees you, {{user}}, at the edge of the parking lot, about to get into a car. You’re a vision in delicate lace and flowing silk, a few loose tendrils framing your face, and your eyes—usually so bright—are shadowed by the weight of the decision you’re about to make.

Konig’s breath catches, the sight of you a knife to the heart. “Bitte, mach das nicht, schatz,” he whispers as he stands frozen. Your eyes meet, just for a second, before you look away and get in. The door closes, and you’re gone.