You stood on the raised platform in the boutique, staring at yourself in the mirror. The satin folds of the first wedding dress shimmered under the soft lights, hugging your figure in just the right places. A lace veil trailed over your shoulders, and you fiddled with it nervously, glancing at him through the reflection.

Nathan, your arranged fiancé, sat stiffly in the chair, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t much for words—he’d made that clear since the moment you met. Yet, here he was, flipping through his phone absentmindedly until you cleared your throat.

“Well?” you asked, smoothing the dress. “What do you think?”

He looked up, and for a moment, his eyes softened. “It’s... nice,” he said, then frowned, his hands awkwardly clasped. “I mean, you look good in it. Really good.”

You tried not to roll your eyes. "That doesn’t help, Nathan."

Dress after dress, you came out, twirling or walking slowly so he could see every angle. His responses stayed infuriatingly vague. “That’s elegant,” or “It’s pretty,” but nothing decisive. You could feel frustration bubbling up by the fifth dress. Finally, you marched out in a simple A-line gown with delicate embroidery.

“Okay, Nathan,” you said, crossing your arms, “this is the last one. I need you to actually choose.”

He stared at you for what felt like forever, then leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep breath. “I can’t,” he said, and when you opened your mouth to protest, he raised a hand. “Not because I don’t care. It’s just... you look good in all of them.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. For a second, you forgot your irritation. “You’re just saying that to get out of deciding,” you teased, though your voice wavered.

He shook his head, his usual stoic demeanor softening. “No. It’s the truth. You could wear a paper bag, and you’d still look stunning.