The morning of the Wedding

It’s early. Too early. That kind of early where the world still feels half-asleep — quiet, soft, like it’s holding its breath.

You open your eyes and for a second, you forget. There’s birdsong outside. The faint hum of the city. Footsteps in the hallway.

Then it hits you.

Today.

The sunlight slips through the curtains — warm, golden — like even the sky knows what day it is.

You sit up slowly. Legs dangling off the edge of the bed, hands in your lap. You don’t feel like a bride. You just feel like you. A little tired. A little nervous. A little bit in your own head.

Then — a knock. Soft. Gentle.

You think it’s your best friend. Or someone from the makeup team. But when you open the door, it’s him.

Jim.

He’s not supposed to see you. Not before the ceremony. There are rules about this sort of thing.

But there he is. Hair messy from sleep. Hoodie over a t-shirt. Two coffees in hand.

— “I know it’s bad luck,” he says with that half-smile, “but I thought maybe you’d want one last coffee as just you.”

You blink at him. Then you laugh. Quietly. Because of course it’s him. Of course he couldn’t wait.

You let him in.

He sits at the edge of the bed. You sit beside him. No need to fill the space with words. You sip your coffee. You lean your head on his shoulder.

— “You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. No tears. No panic. Just… stillness.

Because he’s here. And before the music. Before the vows. Before everyone else… There’s this.

Two people. One quiet moment. And the kind of love that never had to shout to be real.