I’m finally able to breathe.  

Mint lingers on my tongue, sharp and cool— mixed with the sweetness of frosting, the faint burn of liquor still rushing in my veins. My skin hums, clammy and alive, every inch aware. I feel the warmth of every breath ghosting over my cheeks.  

Goosebumps rise in places I didn’t know could tremble. In the hollow behind my knees, along the curve of my spine, like my body is remembering itself for the first time. My lungs swell, release, tremble with each pull of air… not just surviving anymore.  

Alive.  

Finally alive.  

And it tastes like her.

—-

Three weeks ago. In a dim, dusty little jewelry shop that smelled like old silver and forgotten vows, we sifted through trays of cufflinks. Tarnished golds, polished onyx, one pair shaped like tiny anchors. You took my hand without thinking, lifting each pair to my wrist like you were swatching paint on skin. Testing hues against the grain of me. Not just seeing how they matched the suit, but how they felt against me.  

Like we weren’t choosing accessories.  

We were swatching moments. Trying to paint a future I wasn’t sure either of us believed in.

When you finally settled on the simple silver bars, no flourish, no heirloom weight; I asked why. You didn’t say _elegant_ or _classic_ or any of the words the salesman kept offering to us like prayers.  

You just looked at me and whispered,  

_“They don’t scream. They don’t lie."_

And I remember how my breath caught. Not from romance, but recognition. Because in that moment, I knew: you weren't dressing a groom. You were dressing a ghost. The man I’d become long before you ever said yes to a ring or a date or her name on an invitation.

Those cufflinks? They weren't an accent. They were armor. For the wedding. For the kiss after. For everything you already knew I was about to lose… and finally find.

The bell above the shop door jingled when we left. So ordinary, like any other errand completed. The sunlight hitting the sidewalk spilled like mercury. Street too loud with life moving on, unaware of what had just passed between us in that quiet back corner of a forgotten store.

You slipped your hand into mine, warm and sure, while I stared at my cuffs. You walked half a step behind, then beside me— close enough that our arms almost touched with every stride.  

Neither of us spoke.

These cufflinks. Not gold filigree engraved with your initials. Not diamonds paid for by grandparents’ blessings. Just silver bars. Clean lines holding things together without pretense.

_I don’t want you polished_, you once said during one of those midnight drives when rain blurred the world outside and truth felt safer than daylight. _I want you real. Even if it ruins everything._

That’s what this was. This choice. This moment in a ratty little jeweler’s stall surrounded by relics no one wanted anymore. A silent vow spoken through metal and silence: _Let it break open._

Because some love stories aren’t meant to be neat. They’re meant to be true. Even if they start at an ending, even if they bloom from ashes we haven’t burned yet. Even if all it takes is one kiss in front of fifty people.

—-

My lips are still warm from saying _I do_. Somewhere behind us, a French song hums. Soft, sweet, dripping with irony, like the universe is playing along to a romance it knows is doomed already.  

You dig your nails into my biceps, grip tight like you’re afraid I’ll vanish into smoke if you loosen even slightly.  

Maybe I would.  

Maybe I’ve already started. 

And yet; here you are. Pressed against me like memory and fire, shivering not with guilt or hesitation but relief.

By Gods… you feel _unfamiliar_.  

Not wrong. Never wrong. But like coming home only to find the walls repainted, the floorboards shifted. So unknown in this moment, like we’ve traded futures just to steal this one second where time forgets its name.

Love shouldn’t be this sharp. Truth shouldn’t taste like champagne and ruin. God— she’s real. For the first time today… I think so am I.

Your thumbs brush the silver cufflinks at my wrists and something cracks behind my ribs.

You look up at me, eyes wild and wet, like you’re not sure whether to kiss me again or beg for forgiveness.  But there’s no repentance in your touch. Only hunger. Only history.

The room is still spinning, but now it’s us at the center of the storm.  Guests blur into shadows. The bride’s laughter echoes: bright, oblivious, and I don’t turn. I can’t. We’re survivors on a sinking ship, clutching wreckage in the dark.

_“I didn’t think you’d do it,”_ you whisper. Like you’d dreamed this moment for years but never believed it would burn this bright.

How do I tell you that saying “I do” was true? So was every glance between us when she wasn't looking? That loving two people doesn't always mean choosing one, sometimes it means losing both?

You whisper my name. Not how she says it, how you always have; soft on the edges, like it belongs to someone only you’ve ever seen.

All I can think is this isn't freedom. It's weakness. Collapse. It’s admitting I didn't want an ending today. Let the cake go uneaten and vows dissolve into air no one meant to keep. Because right here, with silver cuffs digging into my wrists like guilt made metal, if this is where my life splits in two, then let both halves begin with confession.

—-

Earlier today, I fastened the silver cufflinks into my suit. Hung perfectly, crisp and stiff from five nervous passes of the iron, as if pressing out every wrinkle could smooth what was coming. On the bedside table, an empty shot glass, lip smudged with salt and lime. Not for celebration. Not quite courage either. Just something to dull the edges of what I couldn’t name. Nerves? Dread? Longing?  

My best mate sat beside me, talking. Laughing, maybe. Voice thick like water behind glass, words sliding off me before they can land. I nod anyway.

Suddenly, it’s 2:45.  

I’m guided forward by hands I’ve known my whole life. Mothers soft squeeze, Uncles firm pat, the cousin who winks like we share a secret I don’t remember having. They move me like a piece on a board toward the pedestal where I’m supposed to stand still, breathe evenly, _mean it_. The crowd blurs into washes of pale blue and beige. Linen suits and sundresses rippling in the sea breeze like sand dunes at low tide. Bare feet on warm wood. The hush of anticipation salted with laughter. This beach wedding was your idea too.

You said once that oceans mean beginnings. That tides carry promises better than churches do. And here I am. Making vows to you beneath a clear open sky you taught me how to love.

The wind picks up. My cufflinks catch the light. I don’t know if I’m breathing. The piano begins. It feels wrong, written for a different man on a different shore. The officiant says my name and I flinch, barely catching myself before the world notices I left.

If I had any breath left, you stole it from me.  

Angelic. Frighteningly so. Dressed in white that doesn’t just glow, pulses, as if the sun itself stitched your dress from dawn. I want to tell you not to come any closer. To warn you to get away before your shadow even touches mine.  

Icarus didn’t fall for flying toward the sun… he fell because he couldn’t resist something that promised warmth but only knew how to burn.

And me?  

I’d let you crash just to say I once held fire in my arms.

Part of me _wants_ you to burn.

Not out of cruelty. Never. But because if you’re going to ruin me, then let it be complete. Let the smoke rise high enough that no one can pretend this isn’t about duty, security, the quiet life waiting for me on paper and in photo albums.

You stand there haloed by ocean light and wedding guests who don’t know they’re watching a resurrection, not a ceremony. To see what happens when a man built on “should” finally meets someone who makes him feel like “could.” Like “must.”

Your eyes lock onto mine. Steady, unafraid. I know you’ve already accepted the cost. The rumors. The fallout. The way our names will taste bitter on tongues that never loved recklessly.

A step closer now.  

Somehow, I don’t stumble through my vows. I mean every word, which is the cruelest part. When I say “I do," it isn't a lie.  

When I promise love and forever, my voice doesn't waver; because _I_ believe it, right then, in that sacred sliver of gentleness between breaths.

Then— there she is. In the second row. Slight frame tucked beneath an ivory shawl. Eyes wide with something like hope. Her. Always waiting. Always patient. The one who showed up on rainy nights when you vanished without a word. When your distance stretched so long I thought you’d forgotten my name.

Once— just once— I almost broke.

Lips pressed to her forehead. A gesture too tender to be kind, too soft to be innocent, and irrevocably murmured _"Not now."_ Sent her away with tears glinting like shattered stars on her cheeks.

The ring slips over your finger. My lips find yours. Beneath the weathered wooden arch draped in faux sea grass and wildflowers. Smiling against my mouth, hands clutching my arms like I might vanish.

The air erupts.

Laughter bursts forward like sea foam. Someone cheers too loud. A child throws rose petals straight into the breeze and they spiral away like pink confetti caught in joys own gravity. Clapping, crying, strangers hugging as if everyone here has waited their whole lives for this second. You pull back just enough to look at me, lips parted.

—-

“I love you.”  

Three words, yet they land like flame on dry grass. Not sweet, seared. Dripping with want so deep it borders on pain.

It tastes like sin on the tongue. Sharp and intoxicating. The kind that doesn't ask for forgiveness because it doesn’t want to be forgiven. Just felt. Deep. Again. Her mouth is still close. Too close.

_“I love you,”_ she says again. As if repeating it makes it trueer than every vow spoken today. As if love justifies what we’re doing. As if love _isn’t_ the very thing destroying everything. I shudder. Not from cold. But from how badly I want to say it back.

There’s a sheen of salt on her lip where our mouths parted. A mix of tears or remorse or grief, I can't tell which.

But I taste it all the same.

Too much.

Always too much when it’s us.

Lust thrums beneath it all. Raw and restless. Worse than desire. Knowing every mental scar, every lie we've told ourselves just to survive without touching. Now that we have? We’re unraveling fast.

She leans in again. Slow, desperate. A plea brushing my neck.

_“Stay."_

But we both know I won't.

I Can't.

Not really.

I kiss her again. One last time laced with everything I could never admit. Walk away before either of us has the courage to adjure me not to.

One kiss didn't end a marriage before it began.

It started a life after pretending.

the quiet burial of one life to make room for another.  

And later, when chaos erupted and names were shouted into phones and she ran with her veil half-torn;

Sometimes someone shows up who refuses to let you die quietly. You found me outside beneath a sky heavy with coming rain.  

Laid your head on my shoulder— tired, knowing. 

"Now we breathe."

No cufflinks then.

No mask.

Just two people standing bare-handed under stars, finally undressed by truth.