I hate makeup.
Not in a dramatic way — I just never liked the heaviness of it. The way it makes my face feel unfamiliar, like I'm wearing someone else's expression. But that day, I didn't say no.
My aunt applied it carefully, proudly, as if she were painting something precious. I let her. It was my cousin sister's wedding, and the house was already drowning in noise, instructions, laughter, stress. Saying no felt selfish. So I sat still, smiling when expected, swallowing the discomfort.
That day was exhausting.
Everyone was rushing — carrying trays, fixing clothes, calling names, losing things, finding them again. I moved through it all like a shadow, present but detached. And yet… something felt off.
Not wrong.
Different.
Like the air itself was holding its breath.
The bride and groom looked impossibly happy. People gathered. Rituals began. Music played. And somewhere between all that chaos, my eyes lifted—
And I saw him.
He was tall. Quiet. Handsome in a way that didn't ask for attention but stole it anyway.
I froze.
For a ridiculous second, my mind went blank except for one stupid thought:
How can someone look like that?
Immediately, I scolded myself.
No. Stop. You don't fall like this. And he looks younger than you.
Our eyes met.
Too long to be accidental.
Too short to be safe.
I turned away as if nothing had happened. I didn't try to understand what he might have been thinking. I didn't allow myself that curiosity. I buried it and walked on.
After the ceremony, I was forced to go with my cousin as her bridesmaid. I tried to refuse. I really did. I told myself I was tired, anxious, unnecessary.
The elders didn't care.
I went.
On the way, I kept hoping — absurdly — that I wouldn't see him again. I was already annoyed with myself for noticing him in the first place.
At least the vehicle didn't have him in it.
Small mercy.
When we reached the house where the bride and bridesmaids were staying, exhaustion finally won. I lay down on a bed, half-asleep, barely aware of my surroundings.
Then someone rushed into the room.
It was him.
He didn't notice me.
An elderly woman scolded him playfully for entering while she was changing, and he stumbled back so fast he nearly fell. I laughed quietly, covering my mouth.
It was unexpected.
And oddly comforting.
The second time he entered, he was holding a small girl.
This time, he noticed me.
He paused.
Just a second.
Then — without asking, without explaining — he placed the baby into my arms.
I remember thinking, What? Why me?
He didn't know me. The baby didn't know me.
And yet, she settled against me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She didn't cry. She smiled. Played. Stayed.
Something warm bloomed in my chest, uninvited.
The next day, the elders went to the temple. The house grew quieter. I was left behind with people I barely knew.
Including him.
Children filled the living room — laughing, dancing, shouting. I tried very hard to focus on the TV, on anything except the fact that he was there.
Then I heard it.
"Hey, why won't you dance with us?"
I looked up.
Of course it was him.
Calmly — too calmly — I said, "No. I don't like to dance."
A lie.
A clean, well-practiced lie.
He tilted his head. "You don't like to dance?"
Then, with a grin, "Then you must fight instead."
Before I could respond, a pillow hit me.
Chaos followed.
Pillows. Laughter. We fought on the bed, on the floor, with hands, with ridiculous seriousness. And then I slipped.
So did he.
I fell onto the mattress.
He fell with me.
For one unbearable moment, he was above me, teasing softly, "You lost."
My face burned. My heart betrayed me completely.
I stood up immediately, muttering something careless, and walked out.
Lunch was called. The day softened after that. People became familiar. Conversations flowed. He was easy to talk to — gentle, observant, unexpectedly kind.
It became one of the most beautiful days of my life without me realizing it.
At some point, casually, he asked for my number.
My brain stopped working.
I gave it to him without thinking.
The next morning, I was woken abruptly. His family was leaving for their hometown.
Half-asleep, I sat on the sofa while he tied his shoes.
Our eyes met again.
Quiet this time.
No confusion. No surprise.
Just something unsaid.
Everyone gathered to say goodbye. He hugged the groom. Spoke to others. Then he stood in front of me.
"Bye."
I smiled and waved.
Inside, I was begging — stay one more day.
He didn't.
He left.
Life went on. But my mind didn't stop wondering.
Will he call? Will he remember me the way I remember him?
A year passed.
One day, scrolling through social media, I found a relative from that wedding.
And through them—
I found him.
And that…
That is where the rest of the story begins.