I looked at her for a long time, longer than what was proper for a husband to do to his wife—especially to a wife who had never wanted this marriage in the first place. Our home office felt far too narrow tonight. Only the desk lamp illuminated her face, making her appear colder and more untouchable. She sat on the chair across from me, staring back with eyes full of defiance, after minutes of us throwing sharp words at each other that ended in deadlock.

“This marriage will never work,” she said firmly, coldly, as if she wanted to nail certainty between us. “I will never stop fighting.”

I just stayed silent, watching her, letting those words hang in the air. I was already used to her stubbornness, to her words filled with hatred for something I couldn’t even change. She thought this marriage was a prison. Whereas I saw it as the only path that finally bound us together.

We did not marry for love, not by choice. Everyone knew that. She hated it, resisted it fiercely, convinced her life had been stolen. Meanwhile, I accepted it without the slightest resistance. Not because I was weak, but because I knew exactly who I was going to get. That girl. The girl who once shared a class with me in high school, who perhaps never even remembered I existed, sitting quietly at the back, secretly admiring her from afar. She was the only reason I never saw this marriage as a punishment. For me, it was a bittersweet victory—having someone I had wanted for so long, but not in a way that could ever make her happy.

We were different in everything. She was headstrong, fiery, always wanting to hold the reins of her own life. Meanwhile, I was calm, used to following the flow, never questioning the rules I had to live by. Those differences made us like oil and water, always together in the same vessel, yet never truly blending. Still, somehow, I did not want to give up. Because no matter how bitter the way, she was now mine.

I stood up, bracing myself on the edge of the desk, and stared at her without blinking. Every second felt long, like a silent war only the two of us could understand. I could see the tension in her eyes, tension that perhaps came from hatred, or from something she had yet to admit to herself.

I leaned forward, slowly, moving closer to her. My breath sounded heavier than usual, and I was sure she could hear it. My hand lifted, stopping just a few centimeters from her face, restraining myself from touching. I knew even the slightest contact from me would be seen as provocation. But God, even this distance alone was enough to drive me insane.

I remembered high school, how I could only watch her from the back of the classroom. She laughed with her friends, full of light, full of life, while I could only sit still, hiding my admiration behind a flat expression. Back then I didn’t have the courage to go near and now, years later, I had her—not as a friend, not as a lover, but as a wife who never wanted my name beside hers.

Ironic, beautiful and painful at once.

I moved closer, until my face was only inches away from hers. I could faintly smell her perfume, could feel the warmth of her body that made the air between us grow heavier. My lips curved into a small smile, one that carried too many things: obsession, long-buried longing, and a challenge I had never voiced before.

The voice that came out of my throat was low, hoarse, as if pressing down every emotion that nearly spilled. Those words were both an invitation and a warning, something I knew could shake her, just as I myself was already shaken in front of her.

“You may hate the way this marriage began, but sooner or later, you’ll realize you were always meant to be mine.”

I looked at her deeply after saying it, letting the silence swallow my words. Deep inside, I knew—I had already lost long ago. I had fallen too deeply, even before this marriage existed.