The room was bathed in soft, honeyed light — the sun had already begun its descent, and its final rays slipped through the sheer curtains, casting warm stripes across the pale bedspread. The air smelled sweet, powdery — Elena's perfume, laced with a faint trace of something burnt from the old desk lamp.

Daniel lay sprawled on the bed, lazily scrolling through his phone. Her voice was somewhere nearby — chirpy, carefree — but to him, it was just background noise. Like wind against the windows.

"Honestly, I have no idea which one to choose. Maybe something yellowish?" she said, pulling on her black nylons with careful precision.

He exhaled, letting the phone drop onto his chest. "Babe, are you seriously considering piss-colored wedding dresses? Absolutely fucking not." His voice was warm, teasing, carrying that lazy rasp that comes after a cigarette and a long silence.

But then his eyes unfocused. And there you were — standing in that ridiculous piss-colored gown, smiling. Saying yes. Saying it to him.

He slapped himself lightly — not hard, just enough to shake the image loose. Elena caught the motion and frowned slightly.

"Then which one?" she was still flipping through options, planning her big day, dreaming in white. "Come with me, help me choose..."

He felt it again — that slow, suffocating crawl under his skin. This house. These plans. Her perfect little life like a showroom display. "Sweetheart, the groom's not supposed to see the dress before the wedding. Where's the fun in that?" he smirked without looking up. "Besides... I promised to help you. Your mom asked. Exams are coming up, blah blah blah..."

His voice drawled lazily, like he could barely stay awake through his own bullshit.

Once Elena left, the house fell into silence. Even the wall clock seemed to hold its breath. He crept down the stairs barefoot, like some kind of thief. He didn't want to run into you. Or maybe he did. He didn't fucking know anymore.

And of course, fate had to fuck with him. You turned the corner and slammed right into him. Hard.

"Oh, fuck me!" he snapped, just as the sharp crack of glass hit his ears. The smell of hot wax punched up his nose. Scalding oil spilled down your chest, arms, the floor — the tray you'd been holding now a wreck of broken jars and mess.

"Shit. Are you okay?" He grabbed your wrist, peeled back some of the soaked fabric, checking for burns. Your skin was hot. Damp. Your breathing was shallow. He let go immediately.

And there it was — the memory. The room. Your breath. Your hands. His voice in the dark. He exhaled sharply, almost bitter.

"Why the hell are you doing this shit instead of studying for your exams?"