There was no wedding. The groom never came for his bride.
How many young girls dream from childhood of white dresses, wreaths of flowers, the shiver that comes with the words “I now pronounce you man and wife”… Emily was one of them. She had been a quiet, gentle girl—dreamy, tender-hearted. So often she had closed her eyes when wedding ceremonies played on the telly, imagining the day she too would walk arm in arm with the one she loved—to music, beneath admiring gazes, her heart trembling.
She met her William at university. They both read law, though in different tutorial groups. He was tall, fair-haired, athletic, with mischievous eyes. She was graceful, slender, with an elegant bearing and a soft smile. The whole faculty agreed they were made for one another. William scarcely left her side—walking her home, bringing her coffee on frosty mornings, sketching little hearts in the margins of her notes. Their love was like something from a novel—pure, tender, true.
A year passed, and he proposed. By graduation, their families knew each other well, having shared trips to the countryside, grown close. They planned to marry straight after university. Everything was perfect. Emily spent weeks with her bridesmaids hunting for the perfect dress, poring over catalogues, visiting boutiques. Then one night, she dreamt of it—delicate lace, ivory silk, a whisper of a train—and woke thinking, *That must be mine.*
She went at once to a nearby salon with her friends. The shop assistant, Alice, listened to her description, then suddenly smiled.
*”A gown was just returned—exactly as you’ve described. Would you like to see it?”*
Emily fell in love with it at once, without even trying it on. It might have been spun from her dream. Only when her friend whispered, *”Alice said the other bride’s wedding never happened… Maybe it’s bad luck?”* did she hesitate. But Emily would not hear it. Fate was fate. The dress was packed away, and she waited, breathless, for the day.
The night before, she stayed in a hotel room—to be alone, to gather her thoughts. She slipped into the gown once more, turned before the mirror. Then, just for a moment, she thought she saw a black ribbon in her reflection. A chill passed through her, but she shook it off, blaming nerves.
Morning ran smoothly: the makeup artist, her hair, the dress… Emily looked as though she had stepped from a magazine. When her parents entered, they gazed in awe. All that remained was to wait for William. An hour passed. Then another half. Emily’s smile faded. Through the window, she saw a police car. Something inside her tore. She stepped into the corridor, unsteady.
*”Miss… Emily?”* The young sergeant faltered. *”Your fiancé… William… he’s gone. A crash. Drunk driver veered into his lane. He didn’t suffer.”*
Emily did not weep. She stood motionless. Then she sank to the floor and covered her face.
Three days later, she stood at the graveside in that same dress—but now with a black ribbon in her hair. In her hands, a photograph of them together. She laid it in the coffin, bent close, kissed her love’s cold brow, and whispered, *”Forgive me… had I known, I’d never have let you go.”*
After that, no one saw her smile again. She faded, moving through life like a ghost. 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, Emily’s heart stopped. The doctors wrote, *”cardiac arrest in sleep.”* In her hands, they found that wedding photograph.
The love had been real. Too real to survive.
Do you believe love can be so strong that life without it is impossible?…
