Years later, feelings—let alone love—were forgotten. We had jobs, mortgages, car insurance, doctor appointments, and laundry. In the respectable, predictable life we lived day after day, there was neither time nor space for something as seemingly non-essential as love. Functioning, not feeling, became the unspoken rule of our encroaching midlife.

Love—the word itself now sounds almost ridiculous, heavy with self-importance yet emptied of real meaning or value.

And yet, it was real enough barely a decade ago.

Our wedding day was a long, glorious failure at subtlety. I was no shy bride, happiness lit up my face, etched in every bright and unrestrained smile. Like any other newlywed, I was certain that the love we felt for each other would carry us through any crisis, any challenge. And yet, we never foresaw how the quiet repetition of daily life, daily obligations, and daily disappointments would slowly wear us down from within.

But the death of love isn’t the same as the death of a marriage. A marriage can outlive love, and ours does—elegantly, efficiently. The outer edges of us are so firmly set in stone that whatever once gave us form is no longer needed to hold us together. And yet, I can’t help but wonder where it all went.

A construction detour leads me past our old wedding venue on my way to the grocery store. Right after we were married, I used to take the long way on purpose—wanting to linger in whatever feeling the place still held. I remember a sense of meaning then, a quiet significance I didn’t try to explain, just felt.

I turn into the venue’s parking lot, step out of the car, and plant my feet on the gravel walkway. The last time I walked here, I was in heels, light as air. Today, my steps are slow and weighted—it takes effort just to move one foot in front of the other.

To my quiet astonishment, the venue stands deserted and abandoned. The walls, once pristine, are now scarred with graffiti. Broken light bulbs dangle from the ceiling, powerless, while empty spray cans and scattered debris lie strewn across the ground. It’s painfully clear that no wedding has taken place here in a long, long time.

I walk across the empty hall, my footsteps echoing in the silence, and find the room where we first saw each other, dressed for forever. I remember the private vows we whispered - promises meant to outlast time - spoken just between us, before we stepped out to face the world and all its watchful, questioning eyes.

I pick up the spray can beside me, somehow knowing it still holds something. And as a vow made not to the present or future, but to the past—to who we were then—I write across the wall in the largest letters I can: We were in love here.