Matvey

They dated for two years. Two years of her smile, her ease, and the way she knew how to turn an ordinary Tuesday into a little celebration.

She chose a bridal salon on the outskirts, one they often passed. She tried on dresses one after another: puffy, with long trains and weightless lace. She twirled in front of the mirror, pressing her hands to her chest and exhaling loudly, like a child.

Matvey was silent. He sat in the groom's chair with a cup of cold coffee, silent. His gaze was tired.

That evening, when she had scattered a dozen printouts of the banquet hall and its color scheme across the sofa, he finally spoke.

– Let's just get married. No ceremony. No reception. No fuss or hassle. What's all this show about?

She froze. The printout with the white decorations slipped from her fingers.

"Is this a prank?" she asked quietly, but his eyes already showed she knew it wasn't. "But... you know, I've always dreamed of it... We're almost booked into the restaurant."

"None of this will happen." He looked past her, at the wall. "I'm tired. For me, a wedding is the two of us. Not a circus with ribbons."

"So, a circus," she repeated quietly. And suddenly she looked very mature.

She didn't cry that night. She sat in the kitchen, holding a wedding napkin embroidered with doves, and simply stared at the closed bedroom door. There, behind it, slept the man who had just shattered her childhood. Because these were all problems. A circus. A show.

"I've been waiting for this day since I was six," she said, her voice very quiet. "I imagined myself walking towards you in a white dress, everyone turning around, my mother crying on the first bench. And he..."