**Diary Entry:**
I always imagined my wedding day—the white dress, the flower crown, the shiver down my spine when they’d say, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Like so many other little girls, I dreamed of it from childhood. Eleanor was one of them. She grew up quiet, thoughtful, and tender-hearted. How often she’d shut her eyes when wedding scenes played on telly, picturing herself on the arm of the man she loved, walking down the aisle, with music swelling and hearts stirring.
She met James at university. Both studied law, though in different seminar groups. He was tall, fair-haired, lean, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. She was graceful, slender, with a gentle smile and an elegant poise. Everyone on campus said they were made for each other. James never left her side—walking her home, bringing her coffee on frosty mornings, sketching hearts in the margins of her notebooks. Their love was the kind written in novels—pure, tender, true.
A year later, he proposed. By graduation, their families were friends—holidays in the countryside, Sunday roasts together. They planned the wedding for just after uni ended. Everything was perfect. Eleanor spent weeks with her bridesmaids hunting for the perfect dress, flipping through bridal magazines, visiting boutiques. Then one night, she dreamt of it—delicate lace, ivory silk, a soft train—and woke thinking, *That’s the one.*
She rushed to the nearest bridal shop with her friends. The shop assistant, Lucy, listened to her description and smiled.
“We had one returned recently—exactly as you’ve described. Would you like to see it?”
Eleanor fell in love at first sight, without even trying it on. It was as if the dress had been spun from her dream. Only when her friend whispered, “Lucy said the last bride never made it to the altar… maybe it’s bad luck?” did she hesitate. But Eleanor refused to listen. Fate had brought it to her. The dress was packed, and she waited breathlessly for the big day.
The night before, she stayed alone in her hotel suite—time to reflect, to breathe. She slipped into the dress once more, twirling before the mirror. Then—just for a second—she thought she saw a black ribbon woven through her hair in the reflection. A chill ran through her, but she shook it off, blaming nerves.
Morning went smoothly—makeup, hair, the dress. Eleanor looked like she’d stepped from a magazine. Her parents stood speechless when they saw her. All that remained was waiting for James. An hour passed. Then another thirty minutes. Eleanor’s smile faded. Through the window, she spotted a police car pulling up. Her heart lurched. She stumbled into the hallway, legs unsteady.
“Excuse me… you’re Eleanor?” asked a young constable. “Your fiancé… James… he’s gone. A crash. Drunk driver veered into his lane. He didn’t make it.”
She didn’t cry. She just stood there, then sank to the floor, hands over her face.
Three days later, she stood at his graveside in that same wedding dress—now with a black ribbon in her hair. In her hand, their photograph. She placed it in the coffin, bent down, kissed his cold forehead, and whispered,
“Forgive me… if I’d known, I’d never have let you go.”
After that, no one saw her smile again. She lived as if half-asleep. Her parents called it grief. The 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, Eleanor’s heart stopped in her sleep. The coroner wrote, “natural causes.” In her hands, they found that same wedding photo.
Some love is too real to survive.
Do you believe love can be so strong that living without it is impossible?…
