"Sometimes I want to sleep and never wake up again"

You wake up before the sun is up, and the soft golden light at dawn barely trickles through the curtain. Another day closer to the wedding. Another day where you feel the walls closing in.

The house is quiet, all but ominously so, except for the soft ticking of the hall clock. You stare at the ceiling, your mind racing with thoughts you had been trying to hold at bay since the phone call. Two weeks. Fourteen days. You count them over and over, as if somehow the repetition may make time go slower.

But it doesn't.

Getting out of bed feels like trudging through slush. All the air clings to your skin like wet yarn as you reach toward the window to look out, into this garden Mother beams so proudly from: hedges cut just right, blooms all perfectly seated on their stalks to be the flawless hostess-just calculated and immaculate, with no imperfections. You can't but feel she might well have picked those roses right off too should they ever take the liberty of opening toward their self-will.

You run your hand through your jet-black hair, the long strands falling to the waist like a curtain. Everybody's always raving on and on about how pretty it was, how fortunate you were; for you, it was one more part of the prison, one more thing your mother made sure you kept just right.

A knock on the door breaks your trance-the sound is abrupt, unwelcome.

"Y/N," your mother's voice calls from the other side, sharp and impatient. "Get up. We have work to do."

You don't answer, but you hear the door creak open anyway. She never waits for permission. She doesn't need it, in her eyes. You turn to face her, and already she is scanning you with those cold, calculating eyes, her expression one of constant disappointment.

"You're not dressed," she says in a reproachful manner. "We are meeting with the seamstress in an hour, and you look like you've just rolled out of bed. Get ready."

"I will," you say softly, though you know it is never enough for her.

"Don't drag your feet, Y/N. The Kim family expects perfection, and you are representing this household now. If you embarrass us, it will not be forgiven."

Your hands fist at your sides, nails digging into your palms. It is always the same. Perfection. Reputation. Expectations. Never you. Never your feelings or your dreams or your pain.

She's gone before you can respond, leaving but a hint of the expensive perfume in the air. You just stand there, feeling small and invisible, before you manage to get yourself into motion.

The seamstress is there at 9 a.m. sharp, just as your mother had it planned. The living room looks something out of a bride catalog: swathes of white fabric, lace, and carefully laid ribbons on the coffee table. Your mother stands to one side, watching with an almost unnerving intensity as the seamstress takes your measurements, fiddling over every inch of you.

"You will look beautiful in this," says the seamstress, but her voice isn't coming through to you. The unsaid expectations of your mother cut through the room like a knife, drowning it out.

You nod absently, staring into the mirror while a seamstress pins and tucks fabric around your waist. The dress they'd settled on was pristine, white-exactly what most wedding dresses would be. Only, it feels utter suffocating, weighted down already. Like each fold of the fabric might have been done with chains of silk.

"Sit up straight, Y/N," your mother snaps suddenly, breaking you from your thoughts. "Do you want the Kims to think you're ungraceful?"

"No, Mother," you murmur, straightening your posture.

She sighs, shaking her head. "Honestly, I don't know how you'll manage this. Taehyung deserves someone who can hold herself with dignity. You'll bring us shame if you don't try harder.".

The name bounces in your head, heavy and unfamiliar. Your fiancé, the man you are supposed to spend the rest of your life with. You had seen his face a couple of times in the news-a handsome young man with sharp features, a serious expression, and eyes that seemed as far away as the stars. He is successful, respected, and from a family that your parents seem desperate to please.

But you know nothing about him, not his likes, his dreams, his character.

And you highly doubt he knows anything about you either.

That night in bed, you can hear your parents talking in the other room. Their voices are at a low and steady pitch; words slip through the thin walls like whisps of poison.

"She has to be perfect for this marriage," Mom says sharply. "The Kims have standards, and she will meet them."

"Taehyung is the best match for her," your dad adds. "It will secure everything we worked for."

"And if she fails?" asks Mom.

"She won't."

The words sting. You close your eyes, biting on your lip to hold the tears back. They speak about you like some chess piece, a pawn they're manipulating to a benefit. Not one of them questions if you are okay, much less what you might feel about any of this.

Because they don't care. They never have.

You roll onto your side, tugging the blanket up to your chin as if it might protect you from the weight of it all: the wedding, the expectations, the man you are supposed to marry.

What does he think of this arrangement? Does he resent it as much as you do? Or is he as cold and indifferent as his photos make him seem?

You don't know.

But as the days slip by and the wedding draws nigh, you can feel the dread, like a storm cloud hovering out of reach, settle deep in your bones. You have no idea what awaits you beyond that altar, but one thing you are sure of is that this isn't the life you chose.

It's the life that's been chosen for you.