There was no wedding. The groom never arrived for his bride.
How many little girls dream from childhood of a white dress, a wreath of flowers, the shiver down their spine at the words “I now pronounce you husband and wife”… Emily was one of them. She grew up quiet, demure—dreamy and fragile. How many times had she closed her eyes when wedding ceremonies played on the telly, picturing the day she, too, would walk arm in arm with her beloved—under music, under admiring glances, her heart trembling.
She met her Oliver at university. They both studied law, though in different groups. He was tall, fair-haired, sharp, with mischief in his eyes. She was graceful, slender, with delicate posture and a gentle smile. The whole faculty said they were made for each other. Oliver never left her side. He walked her home, brought her coffee on frosty mornings, doodled hearts in her notebooks. Their love was something out of a novel—pure, tender, real.
A year passed, and he proposed. By the time they defended their dissertations, their parents already knew one another, visited each other’s cottages, became family friends. They planned the wedding for just after graduation. Everything was perfect. Emily spent weeks with her friends picking the dress, flipping through catalogues, rushing between boutiques. Then one night, she dreamt of it—the gown of her dreams: the finest lace, ivory silk, a whisper of a train. She woke with a single thought: *That one has to be mine.*
She hurried to the nearest bridal shop with her friends. The shop assistant, Hannah, listened to her description, then smiled.
“We just had a dress returned—exactly as you described. Would you like to see it?”
Emily fell in love at first sight, without even trying it on. It was as if woven from her dream. Only her friend whispered, “Hannah said the other bride’s wedding never happened… maybe it’s bad luck?” But Emily wouldn’t hear it. Fate was fate. The dress was boxed, and she waited, trembling, for the big day.
The night before the wedding, she checked into a hotel room—just to be alone, to gather her thoughts. She put the dress on once more, twirled before the mirror. Then, for a moment, she thought she saw a black ribbon on her head in the reflection. A shiver ran through her, but she shook it off, blamed the nerves.
Morning went smoothly: the makeup, the hair, the dress… Emily looked like she’d stepped from a magazine. When her parents entered the room, they gasped. All that was left was to wait for Oliver. An hour passed. Then thirty more minutes. Emily wasn’t smiling anymore. Through the window, she saw a police car pull up. Something inside her snapped. She stumbled into the hallway.
“Excuse me… Emily?” a young sergeant asked. “Your fiancé… Oliver… he’s died. A crash. A drunk driver swerved into his lane. He was gone before the ambulance arrived.”
Emily didn’t cry. She just stood, frozen. Then she sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands.
Three days later, she stood at the cemetery in that very dress—now with a black ribbon in her hair. In her hand, a photo of them together. She laid it in the coffin, bent down, kissed her love’s cold forehead, and whispered,
“Forgive me… if I’d known, I’d never have let you go.”
No one ever saw her smile again. She faded, moved through life like a ghost. Her parents called it depression. Doctors called it adjustment disorder. But her mother knew: her daughter was slipping away.
Exactly a year later, on what should have been their anniversary, Emily’s heart stopped. The doctors noted *cardiac arrest in sleep.* Clutched in her hands was that wedding photo.
The love had been real. Too real to survive.
Do you believe love can be so strong that living without it is impossible?…
