Sky Rocket

The Wedding

Today, the sun rises with a golden hue, casting its warmth upon the world. But within me, there's a chill—a tempest of emotions that swirls like autumn leaves caught in a gale. Today, I stand at the precipice of a life-altering decision: marriage. For most, this would be a dream fulfilled, a fairy tale spun from starlight and whispered promises. But not for me. My heart beats out of sync with the melody of celebration. I am the reluctant bride, the one who walks the aisle with trepidation rather than joy.

Ken, with his dark eyes and quiet strength, bears the burden of expectation. His inheritance, tied to this union, binds him like a golden shackle. To defy it would be to sever the lifeline of privilege and legacy. So, he stands, shoulders squared, eyes cast downward, a prisoner of circumstance. And I, Maria, hold a different key. My heart, though heavy, beats with a different rhythm. For once, I choose to honor my beloved grandmother's final wish. Her frail form lies in the shadow of mortality, and soon she will slip away like sand through an hourglass. She raised me, loved me, and never once questioned my dreams. Now, in her twilight years, she asks for this one favor—to see me wed to the man who carries her memories within his blood.

I remember, as a child, sitting at her feet, listening to tales of love and loss. She spoke of moonlit rendezvous, stolen kisses, and the ache of separation. Her eyes would mist over, and I'd imagine her heart still beating for that long-lost love—the one who danced with her under star-strewn skies.

And so, today, I done the bridal veil not for myself, but for her. The lace whispers against my skin, a delicate secret shared between generations. As I walk toward my groom, my steps measured and resolute, I glimpse his eyes—a mirror reflecting my own uncertainty.

The curtain falls on this act, and we step into the unknown. The wedding bells chime, and I hold my grandmother's wish, hoping that somewhere in the echoes of vows spoken, she finds her own long-lost love once more.

The guests, a select few, watched with polite interest. Their eyes flitted between us, measuring the gap between duty and desire. But there were no lines asking for our consent, no heartfelt vows exchanged. Instead, we were directed to sign the documents—the marriage contract—by the lawyer himself.

Eugene Aldevinco, Ken's grandfather, presided over this clandestine affair. His gnarled hands held the pen, ink poised to etch our fates into permanence. He knew, as did we, that this union teetered on the edge of defiance. The old man's eyes bore witness to lifetimes of love and loss, and he carried the weight of tradition like an ancient atlas. "Maria," he said, his voice a low rumble, "do you take Ken to be your lawfully wedded husband?" I hesitated, my gaze flickering to Ken. His jaw clenched. But I had made my choice—for my grandmother, for the love she had poured into my veins. I nodded, my voice steady as I echoed the words that bound us. "I do." The contract sealed our fates. The guests applauded, their smiles masking the complexities beneath. But it was Eugene's gaze that held mine. He knew the fragility of our resolve, the tremor in our steps.

Maria's heart danced to a discordant tune on her wedding day. The sun, a golden witness, painted the world with its warmth, yet within her, a chill lingered. Who wouldn't resent the twist of fate that bound him to a stranger? Before Maria, there was another—a beauty. A face like an angel, a figure that defied gravity, and wealth that rivaled his own. Ken had been a love-sick puppy, chasing her across moonlit dreams. And then Maria stepped into his life, a tempest in a teacup, shattering his perfect love story and she remembered another encounter—the day she spilled cold water on Ken abroad. She had been a waitress, he a haughty customer. Begging for forgiveness, she had glimpsed the arrogance in his eyes. He had ensured her deportation, her dreams slipping through her fingers like sand. But Maria had her reasons. Her grandmother, frail and fading whispered her wish, "Marry him," she implored, her voice a fragile echo. "For me."

Now, as she signed her name alongside his, she glanced at her grandmother, who sat in the front row, her eyes clouded with age. The old woman knew the cost of this union—the sacrifices made, the hearts entangled. Ken's stare remained a dagger, but Maria held her ground. She would endure his hatred, bear the weight of tradition, for her grandmother's sake.

Getting married to him is a sort of revenge as well. Ruining his pretty love life give some sort of satisfaction to me though I knew too well that there might be an upcoming hell to come to deal with later.

Once my grandma leaves, I rush to change into a more comfortable clothing which happen to be a bit loose faded jeans paired with a V-neck shirt and leather flats letting my hair in a loose bun and some are falling down my face. Right after changing, I brought my camera with me. I made sure no one will notice my little escape.

I adore strolling along the shorelines. The rhythmic slapping of the waves, seagulls soaring overhead, and the tranquil skyline envelop me in a sense of serenity. I capture a few snapshots, capturing the essence of this idyllic moment. Eventually, I settle onto the warm sand, my gaze fixed on a yacht adorned with vibrant disco lights, its deck alive with music and merriment. Hours pass, and I remain immersed in the peaceful scene before reluctantly making my way back to the resort, a collection of unique seashells cradled in my hands.

As I walked along the path, I never anticipated that my husband would appear. His expression mirrored mine—a shared appreciation for the picturesque surroundings. Oddly, he didn't seem annoyed or angry; instead, his demeanor was alert and concerned. "They've been searching for you," he said, his voice laced with worry. "Why didn't you inform me you were coming here?" I shrugged, my excitement still bubbling. "I forgot. Everyone seemed so busy, and I just wanted to explore this place." His eyes bore into mine. "Maria, that's no excuse. It's our wedding day. Shouldn't the bride be present for the entire celebration? We have guests waiting." I remained silent. Arguments weren't my forte, especially when I craved solitude. I quickened my pace, ignoring his attempts to keep up. Then, out of nowhere, he hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Shocked, I squirmed, demanding to be put down. He chuckled, unyielding. Exhausted, I eventually surrendered, my protests fading into the background. As he carried me back to the resort, some lingering guests giggled at our unconventional return. He gently set me down, and they congratulated us, praising my beauty. But deep down, I just wanted to get this over with.