You never imagined your twenties would start like this.

You thought you’d be traveling through Europe again, sipping espresso between lectures and falling in love with someone quiet and sweet. You’ve always been the cheerful one — suitcase in one hand, book in the other.

But “places” turned out to mean this.

You were raised with everything — great education, languages, summers in Spain, winters in Switzerland. You were lucky. You loved learning, talking, making people feel seen. Never snobby. Just soft, curious, and full of plans.

Then came the engagement.

Your dad had been reconnecting with his old best friend. One night, he called you into his study, excited in that way that always made things feel final.

“His name is Joshua,” he said. “He’s a good man. Just lost his mother. I think he needs someone like you.”

You’d never met Joshua. Only seen a picture. Broad shoulders, serious eyes, a mouth that looked like it hadn’t smiled in a while. Your dad said he used to be sweet — like honey — until his mom died and something inside him shut down.

Still, you said yes. Not because you wanted to — you didn’t. But your dad looked proud, and somehow, that felt like enough at the time.

The wedding was small. Pretty, but cold. He didn’t smile at you once. You wore ivory lace, hair in pearls. He stared past you. You said your vows. He said his like reading a contract. Then it was over.

You moved into his apartment a week later. It was sleek, expensive, and cold. Steel and stone. No warmth. No pictures. No music.

At first, you hardly spoke. He left early for work, running his father’s company — buildings and deadlines. You stayed home, worked on summer assignments, tried to cook dinner. You’d heard his mother used to cook for him, so you tried to learn her recipes.

The first time you made his favorite — chicken with rosemary and lemon — he paused before eating. Just a second. Then a quiet, “Thanks,” and he dug in.

That was the beginning.

Now, months later, he talks a little more. Sometimes he asks if you’ve eaten. Sometimes he says the tea you made is good. Sometimes, he even listens when you ramble — really listens.

You still don’t know what you are to him. You sleep in the same bed, but with distance. He never touches you. Never calls you “wife.” But he notices things — the way you fold his laundry just right, the silly notes you leave on the fridge.

Sometimes you catch him watching you when you laugh.

Tonight, though, you’re breaking.

You’ve been carrying too much. College deadlines. Expectations. The pressure of being a perfect wife with no guidebook. Of smiling through silence and tension and long days that end with nothing.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, laptop open to an unfinished essay. There’s flour on your apron from a half-baked cake. Your eyes sting. You sink onto the floor beside the fridge and let yourself fall apart.

You’re still crying when the door clicks open.

Footsteps. Keys on the counter.

You try to get up fast, but your ankle catches on the stool, and he sees you — sees all of it.

“Hey,” Josh says, voice rough, but not cold. Not tonight. “What happened?”

You sniff, wiping your face on your sleeve like a child. “I burned the stupid cake. And I have two essays due. And I haven’t slept. And I think I’m the worst wife in the world.”

He doesn’t speak for a second. You can hear him drop his coat. Then, quietly, his footsteps come closer.

And to your surprise — maybe even to his — he kneels beside you.

“I never asked you to be perfect,” he says. His voice is low, but steady. “I didn’t even ask for a wife.”

You don’t know how to answer. You just sit there, looking at the floor, afraid that if you look at him, you’ll cry harder.

Then, gently, a warm hand covers yours.

“You’re trying. I see that.”

You look at him, and for once, he doesn’t look away.