(Liam's POV)
The days leading up to the parental summit didn't just pass; they blurred together in a dizzying haze of tulle samples, catering contracts, and a suffocating sense of finality. With the wedding exactly a month away, our apartment had transformed into a war room of matrimonial logistics. Linna was the commanding general, practically radiating a manic, joyful energy that bounced off the walls. I, on the other hand, felt like a ghost haunting my own life.
"Okay, so do you think we should go with the navy blue or the burgundy for the tablecloths?" Linna asked, her brow furrowing in that fierce, adorable concentration she got whenever she was solving a problem. She holding her tablet out to me, tapping her manicured nail against the screen.
I stared blankly at the digital swatches. The rich navy and deep burgundy bled together into a muddy, unrecognizable smudge. My mind was entirely blank. The cognitive load of choosing a color felt equivalent to solving quantum physics.
"Uh, navy blue sounds good," I murmured, the words tasting like ash. I offered a tight, automatic smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"Perfect! The bridesmaids' dresses will look stunning against that backdrop," she beamed, her voice bubbling with an effortless enthusiasm that made my chest ache.
I nodded, but internally, a cold pit of emptiness was rapidly expanding. This was supposed to be the crescendo of our love story—the golden, monumental month where every decision felt charged with romance. Instead, I felt entirely untethered, going through the motions like a poorly programmed android. It wasn't just a lack of interest; it was a profound, hollow disconnection that terrified me to my core.
Linna kept scrolling, completely oblivious to the waves of panic rolling over me. "Oh, and we have to decide on the guest list! I thought we could start with family, then you know, all our friends from college and high school."
"Yeah, sounds good," I said. Even to my own ears, my voice sounded flat, a tinny imitation of a happy fiancé. I caught the briefest flicker of hesitation in Linna's movements—the way her pen hovered over the glass screen, her brow creasing with a momentary, sharp concern—before she deliberately shook it off and plunged back into the safety of planning.
We began separating the lists. Linna jotted down names with furious efficiency while I mindlessly pointed at entries on a spreadsheet. Names of people I had known for a decade, family members who had raised me, friends who had bled for me. I looked at their names and felt absolutely nothing. The emotional detachment was a thick, bulletproof glass wall between me and the rest of the world.
"Should we invite Aaron?" Linna asked abruptly, looking up.
The mention of his name was a sudden, violent jolt to my system. Aaron. My best friend since the third grade. A phantom limb of anger and grief twitched inside me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to drop to my knees and tell her that he *had* to be there, that I couldn't do this without him. But the words suffocated in my throat, trapped behind that paralyzing emotional wall.
"Yeah, definitely," I forced out, my jaw tight. "He wouldn't miss it for the world."
Linna noted it down with a satisfied nod, her smile snapping back into place like a shield. "And what about food? Do you want a buffet style or a seated dinner?"
"Buffet seems more casual," I suggested, hating the dead weight of my own voice. I winced internally at how aggressively apathetic I sounded. "Makes sense for the amount of guests."
"Great idea! More variety for everyone!" she cheered. I looked at her, and a wave of profound guilt washed over me. Her joy was beautiful, pure, and entirely earned. It felt monstrous of me to drag my feet through her dream, to dampen the brightest month of her life with my inexplicable gloom. So, I dug deep, manufacturing nods, chuckles, and half-hearted critiques as she riffled through a mountain of ideas.
But as the evening wore on, the performance became excruciating. The air in the room felt heavy, pressurized. Linna was moving at hyperspeed now, fluidly pivoting from floral arrangements to acoustic playlists, to a debate over hiring a professional photographer versus letting a talented friend handle the camera.
"I've been thinking about the cake. Do you have a flavor in mind?" she asked, tilting her head and tapping the end of her pencil against her chin, watching me closely.
"I don't know. Chocolate, maybe?" The sheer weight of the question felt like a physical load pressing down on my shoulders, crushing the air from my lungs.
"Classic choice! But how about mixing it up a bit? We could do a tiered cake with chocolate and vanilla!" She launched into a dizzying list of artisanal bakeries and flavor profiles, her eyes twinkling with a brilliant, hopeful light.
"Sounds good," I said blankly. The pit in my stomach deepened into a chasm.
"Why don't we ask our parents what they think? They have such good ideas!" Linna suggested.
My heart did a slow, painful roll. The upcoming dinner with our parents loomed on the horizon like a storm front. The thought of sitting across from them, discussing seating charts and deposit deadlines while my internal world was actively collapsing, made me nauseous. I was terrified they would look right through my carefully constructed facade.
"We should probably throw together some appetizers and drinks as well," Linna continued, her momentum carrying her over my silence. "What do you think about a cocktail hour before the reception?"
"Sure," I replied absently, staring at the floor.
Suddenly, the frantic scratching of her pencil stopped. The silence in the room became absolute. Linna lowered the tablet, her entire demeanor shifting from wedding coordinator to the woman who knew me better than I knew myself. She leaned forward, her eyes searching mine with a raw, piercing vulnerability that made me want to run.
"Liam, are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice laced with a genuine, heartbreaking concern.
My chest tightened so hard it hurt. I didn't want to be this empty shell. I desperately wanted to leap across the couch, pull her into my arms, and feel the same electric spark of excitement that used to define our entire relationship. I wanted to care about the cake. I wanted to care about the colors. But I was trapped under ice, looking up at her warmth.
"I'm fine," I lied quickly, the reflex sharp and defensive as I forced a wide, hollow smile. I saw the immediate doubt flash across her features, the subtle hurt that I was shutting her out. Desperate to avoid a breakdown, I quickly redirected. "Let's just focus on these plans for now, okay? We're on a roll."
"Sure," she whispered. She agreed, but the light in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by a cautious, guarded look.
We resumed the discussion, but the magic was gone. I forced myself to speak up more, to offer opinions on appetizers and champagne brands, but it was purely mechanical. The knot in my stomach remained tightly coiled—an unresolved, heavy truth that I was too terrified to voice.
When we finally packed away the binders and notes, a heavy, suffocating silence stretched between us. The apartment felt larger, colder.
As the hours ticked down toward our parents' arrival, a profound sense of apprehension settled over me. I had thought I could just coast on Linna's joy, that her excitement would eventually jump-start my own frozen heart. But looking out the window into the gathering dusk, I realized the truth: I couldn't step into a lifelong celebration while dragging the heavy anchor of my own unspoken dread. Before the parents arrived, before the vows were spoken, I was going to have to face whatever was rotting inside me.