They say every man dreams of a wedding like this.

They say it’s the ultimate fantasy—marrying a goddess, standing in a hall glittering like heaven, becoming the headline of the year.

Yeah. They say a lot of things.

But no one asks the groom what he feels when he’s standing in front of a thousand cameras, wearing a smile that isn’t his.

---

Flash. Flash. Flash.

I swear the photographers were trying to kill me with light. Maybe that’s how I go—death by celebrity-grade camera flashes. At least the obituary would be poetic: “Lawyer from the countryside, slain by luxury.”

I adjusted my tuxedo for the tenth time, because that’s what nervous men do in movies.

Truth is, the suit cost more than my parents’ house back in Yongdu-ri. If I ruined it with sweat stains, that’d be another debt I couldn’t afford.

---

I glanced sideways at her—Hong Hae-in.

My bride. My wife. The woman whose name could buy and sell entire provinces without blinking.

Even now, even here, she looked untouchable. A vision sculpted out of ice and diamonds. The dress was flawless. The jewels on her neck could probably pay off my law school loans… and my soul.

People called her the “Queen.” Looking at her now, I understood why. Queens don’t walk among mortals. They don’t smile unless they have to. They don’t bleed… or at least, they pretend not to.

And here I was.

The farmer’s son who somehow wandered into the wrong fairy tale.

---

I should be happy, right?

This is what they call a dream come true.

The villagers back home are probably throwing fireworks, drinking soju like it’s a national holiday. My mother’s probably crying into the phone to every relative we’ve ever had, screaming, “My son married the heiress! We’re practically royalty now!”

And me?

I’m standing here wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life.

---

The priest’s voice floated through the hall like background music. Something about vows, eternity, till death do us part. Great sales pitch. Too bad the warranty on those words usually expires in a year.

I risked a glance at Hae-in.

She wasn’t looking at me. Not really. Her eyes were fixed somewhere far away, like she had better places to be. Her expression didn’t crack—not once.

They called her “The Smile of Queens” in magazines.

But up close, it wasn’t a smile. It was… armor.

And the scary part? I don’t know when she started wearing it around me.

---

I remember the first time I saw her.

Back then, she laughed like a kid.

Back then, she looked at me like I was more than just… this.

What changed?

Maybe everything.

Maybe nothing.

---

“Do you, Baek Hyun-woo, take Hong Hae-in to be your lawfully wedded wife… till death do you part?”

The priest’s words hit me like a joke only I understood.

Till death?

Buddy, I’ll be lucky if we make it past three years without killing each other.

Still, I said it.

“I do.”

Because what else could I say?

“No thanks, I’d like to return this marriage and get a refund”?

Not when half the country is watching. Not when her father is sitting in the front row, smiling like a man who owns the world.

---

Her turn.

“Do you, Hong Hae-in, take Baek Hyun-woo…”

She said it smoothly. Perfectly.

“I do.”

Like it cost her nothing.

Maybe it didn’t.

---

Applause exploded. Cameras clicked like machine guns. The hashtag #WeddingOfTheCentury was probably already trending, next to #PoorGuyWinsJackpot.

And then came the kiss.

The grand cinematic moment everyone was waiting for.

I leaned down, careful, gentle. Our lips touched. Warm… but empty. Like kissing a porcelain doll.

And in that instant, I knew.

This wasn’t a fairy tale.

This was a contract dressed in white.

---

The crowd erupted in cheers. People cried.

Meanwhile, I was busy memorizing the exit routes in case I decided to run.

---

The ceremony dragged on like a long corporate meeting. Toasts, speeches, smiles. My jaw hurt from pretending to be the happiest man alive.

“Hyun-woo-ssi! Over here!”

“Smile for the camera!”

“How does it feel to marry Korea’s most eligible heiress?”

How does it feel?

Like standing on a glass bridge over a canyon—beautiful view, sure, but one wrong step and you’re dead.

---

Every handshake felt like a deal. Every compliment felt like a warning.

You’re lucky, Hyun-woo.

Translation: Don’t screw this up, peasant.

---

Later, when the noise faded, we stood alone for a moment on the balcony. The city glittered below like a billion little lies.

“You look tired,” I said, because small talk is what you do when you don’t know what else to say to your wife.

She gave me that perfect smile—the kind people frame in magazines.

And then, so quietly I almost missed it, she whispered:

“Happily ever after… what a joke.”

---

My stomach dropped.

Because in that moment, I realized two things:

One, she wasn’t joking.

Two, maybe I wasn’t either.

---

The crowd called it the wedding of the century.

Me?

I called it the beginning of the longest war of my life.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t sure which side I was on anymore.

---

People think the sound of silence is peaceful.

They’ve clearly never walked into a mansion big enough to swallow your voice whole.

Silence in this house isn’t peaceful.

It’s heavy.

It sits on your shoulders like a weight you can’t shake off, whispering, “You don’t belong here.”

---

The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was the smell—fresh lilies. The kind of flowers rich people keep around to remind you they have a gardener. Back home in Yongdu-ri, flowers grew wild in the yard. Here, they stand in crystal vases like prisoners.

My footsteps echoed down the marble hallway. Every echo sounded like a bad joke:

Look at you, country boy. Living the dream, huh?

---

It was past midnight. Work ran late, because work always runs late when you’re trying to avoid home. I told myself it was because of some corporate merger I was handling, but who was I kidding? Nobody works until midnight to fix their marriage.

I loosened my tie, tossed my jacket over the leather sofa that probably cost more than my first car. The housekeeper had gone home hours ago. No maids, no noise, just… emptiness.

Our wedding pictures lined the hallway, mocking me. Two perfect faces frozen in time, smiling like they actually believed in forever. Every time I passed them, I wanted to laugh—or maybe punch something.

---

Her bedroom door was shut.

Yes, her bedroom.

Once upon a time, we shared one. Then came the excuses:

“I work late, I don’t want to disturb you.”

“I need space.”

And just like that, two rooms, two lives, two strangers under the same roof.

People don’t tell you this part about marriage.

They tell you about love, compromise, partnership. They never tell you about the day your spouse becomes… background noise.

---

I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and stared at shelves full of expensive things I didn’t want to eat. Truffle pasta, smoked salmon, wine older than me. All of it carefully arranged by someone paid to care.

But right then, all I wanted was instant ramen. The kind that burns your tongue and tastes like college. The kind that feels real.

Instead, I grabbed a bottle of water and sat at the counter, staring at the glossy marble like it might give me answers.

---

The clock ticked. The house stayed quiet.

Except… there it was. The faintest sound. Breathing.

I turned my head.

Her door was cracked open just enough for light to spill out.

So she was awake. Pretending to sleep, like always.

And me? I pretended not to notice, like always.

Funny, isn’t it? Two people living like strangers, too proud—or too tired—to admit they’re lonely.

---

I thought about knocking. About saying something. Anything.

How was your day?

Do you hate me yet?

Do you even remember why you married me?

But the words stayed locked in my throat. Because deep down, I already knew the answers.

---

I pushed back from the counter and walked down the hall. The floor was cold under my feet, like everything else in this house.

Her door was closer now. Through the crack, I saw her silhouette against the lamp light. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, hair falling over her face like a curtain.

For a second, I wondered if she was crying.

And for a second, I wanted to care. I really did.

But then she looked up—just slightly—and that mask was back. The one I’d seen at the wedding, the one she wears for the world. Cold. Perfect. Untouchable.

---

I walked past her door without a word.

Because if I stopped, if I spoke, something would break.

And I wasn’t sure which one of us it would be.

---

My room was the same as always: neat, sterile, soulless. A five-star hotel without the warmth. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor like it might tell me where everything went wrong.

I used to think love was like a case in court—you build it with evidence, facts, solid arguments. If you’re reasonable enough, if you fight hard enough, you win.

But this?

This isn’t a case I can win.

This is a sentence.

---

The worst part?

I don’t even hate her.

I wish I did. Hate would be easier. Hate would mean I still feel something strong enough to matter.

Instead, all I feel is… tired.

Tired of the silence.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of lying to myself every time I look at her and think, Maybe tomorrow will be different.

---

The city lights spilled through the curtains, painting the room in gold and shadows. Somewhere out there, people were falling in love, kissing under street lamps, laughing over cheap beer.

And here I was.

Married. Successful. Miserable.

Funny how life works, huh?

---

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling until it blurred. The silence wrapped around me like a second skin, suffocating, endless.

I closed my eyes and told myself I’d sleep.

That tomorrow I’d wake up and things would feel different.

They never do.

---

Love letters are supposed to mean something.

They’re proof that, at least once, you cared enough to write your feelings instead of just… sending an emoji.

I used to write them for her.

Not long ones, not cheesy poems—just simple words, the kind that came from a guy who believed honesty was enough.

Apparently, honesty is worth less than a diamond necklace in this house.

---

It was a Saturday. The kind of gray, soulless day that makes even the city look tired. I had no cases to run, no excuses to leave the house. So I stayed. Worst decision ever.

The mansion felt colder than usual, like even the walls were done pretending to care. The housekeeper had gone, leaving behind spotless counters and silence thick enough to choke on.

I wandered into my office, trying to drown in paperwork, but the words on the contracts blurred together. My head wasn’t in it. My mind… was somewhere else.

Or maybe with someone else.

---

Her door was closed, like always.

I told myself I wasn’t curious. I told myself I didn’t care.

Then I told myself another lie: that checking her room for something “important” wasn’t pathetic.

---

The room smelled faintly of her perfume. Cold floral, expensive, and distant—just like her. Everything was perfect, arranged like a magazine photo spread. Not a single thing out of place.

Except me.

---

I opened the drawer of her vanity, searching for—what, exactly? A reason? A sign she still thought of me? I don’t know. What I found instead stopped me cold.

A small white box.

Wrapped in the same paper I’d used last year.

My anniversary gift. Unopened.

---

For a second, I just stared at it.

Like if I looked hard enough, it would explain itself. Like maybe there was a logical reason why something I gave her with hope ended up forgotten in a drawer, gathering dust like old memories.

I picked it up. It was light, too light, like my expectations. The ribbon was still tied perfectly, mocking me. I ran my thumb over it, remembering how nervous I’d been when I bought it.

It wasn’t flashy. Not by her family’s standards. Just a simple gold bracelet with her initials engraved inside. Something that said, You’re not the Queen of Hong Group to me. You’re just Hae-in.

Funny. Turns out, that was the problem.

---

I sat on the edge of her bed, the box in my hands, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself remember.

---

Back then, things were different.

We didn’t have marble floors or servants or boardrooms breathing down our necks. We had late-night walks, cheap coffee dates, stupid jokes that made her laugh until her shoulders shook.

And letters.

God, I wrote her so many letters.

They weren’t perfect. My handwriting looked like it survived a small earthquake. But she loved them—or at least, she pretended to. She said my words made her feel warm.

I believed her.

---

“Hyun-woo, you’re too serious,” she’d tease, resting her chin on my shoulder as I scribbled. “What are you writing this time?”

“Things I can’t say out loud.”

She’d smile, that real smile that made her eyes crinkle, and say, “Then keep writing.”

So I did.

Every chance I got.

I wrote about the way her hair smelled like spring. About how her laugh made me forget the world. About how I wanted to build a life with her—even if that life was small, even if it wasn’t enough for someone like her.

Turns out, it wasn’t.

---

The letters are gone now. Burned? Thrown away? Stuffed in a box somewhere? Who knows.

What I do know is this: somewhere along the way, we stopped being the people who wrote and read them.

---

The unopened box in my hand felt heavier than gold.

Heavier than silence.

Because it wasn’t just a gift. It was proof. Proof that I’d been shouting into a void for years, and the void never cared enough to answer.

“When,” I whispered to the empty room, “did we become strangers?”

---

Maybe it was the day we moved into this house.

Maybe it was the first time I walked into a family dinner and felt like an intruder.

Maybe it was the day I realized her smile for me was the same one she gave to the cameras.

Or maybe it wasn’t one day. Maybe it was a thousand little cracks, too small to notice until the whole thing collapsed.

---

The door creaked softly.

I looked up.

She stood there in the doorway, dressed in silk pajamas, her hair perfectly messy—the kind that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. Her eyes flicked to the box in my hand, then back to my face.

For a second, neither of us spoke. The silence roared louder than words.

“You were looking for something?” Her voice was calm, cold. The kind that doesn’t ask—it accuses.

I held up the box, forcing a smile that felt like glass in my mouth.

“Just wondering how many anniversaries it takes for a gift to make it out of the drawer.”

Her jaw tightened, but her face stayed unreadable.

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Right.” I laughed softly. Bitterly. “Guess you didn’t ask for me either.”

Her eyes flickered—just for a second. Then the mask slipped back on.

“You shouldn’t be in my room.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

No explanation. No apology. Nothing.

The click of the door closing felt like a gunshot.

---

I sat there for a long time, the box in my hands, until my fingers went numb. Then I put it back in the drawer, exactly where I found it.

Because that’s what we do now.

We put things back.

Feelings. Words. Ourselves.

Back where no one can see them.

---

That night, lying in my room, I stared at the ceiling and thought about all the letters I’d written, all the words I’d never said.

And for the first time, I wondered if I’d been wrong from the start.

If love isn’t about fighting for someone.

If love is just… knowing when to quit.

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