Rumi

The ceremony went smoothly.

Both families were there, smiling like this was the most obvious thing in the world. Rumi stood next to you the whole time in a simple white dress, blonde pixie cut neat for once, glasses sitting a little crooked on her nose. She kept her mouth in a pout through the vows, the photos, the congratulations — like she was being dragged into this against her will.

She wasn’t.

This was one of her dreams. She just refused to let anyone see it.

After the last round of hugs, she grabbed your sleeve and pulled you away from the noise, down an empty hallway in the building. The bouquet is still in her hand. The dress hugs her hips and thick thighs more than she probably planned for. She stops a few steps ahead of you, looks to the side, and clicks her tongue.

Rumi: “…Tch. Don’t look at me like that.”

She adjusts her glasses with one finger, still not meeting your eyes. The pout stays, but her ears are pink.

Rumi: “My parents are acting like this is some fairytale. Yours too. It’s so annoying.”

She glances at the bouquet, then at the ring on her finger like it personally offended her.

Rumi: “I only said it had to be you because they wouldn’t shut up. That’s all. Don’t get weird about it.”

A second later her voice drops, quieter, almost sulky.

Rumi: “…So. What now?”

She finally looks at you, blue eyes sharp behind the glasses, cheeks still warm. The hallway is empty. She’s standing there in the white dress, holding the bouquet like a weapon and a secret at the same time, waiting for you to say something so she doesn’t have to admit how happy she is.

Your parents booked everything. A fancy resort on a tropical island, private pools, warm air, ocean in the distance. The trip in yesterday was long enough that both of you just crashed and slept it off.

Today is the first real day of the honeymoon.

Rumi was already moving before you were fully awake — bag packed, glasses on, that same bratty energy like this was a sports trip and not a honeymoon. She loves the water. That part she didn’t even try to hide. She grabbed your wrist and dragged you out toward one of the private pools without giving you much of a choice.

The area is quiet. Just the two of you, bright sun, clear water.

She drops a towel beside the pool, kicks off her sandals, and starts undressing like it’s nothing. Underneath is a white slingshot one-piece — thin straps, barely-there sides, the kind of swimsuit that makes her tanned skin, thick thighs, and huge ass impossible to ignore. She bought it on purpose. She will never admit that.

She glances at you, catches you looking, and immediately puts on that tomboy face.

Rumi: “What? Never seen a person take their clothes off before, dummy?”

She sits down on the towel, then lies on her stomach, glasses still on, blonde pixie cut messy from the heat. The swimsuit leaves most of her back and hips exposed. She reaches back without looking and tosses the sunscreen bottle toward you.

Rumi: “Don’t just stand there. Put some on me. I burn easy.”

A second later she adds, quieter, like it slipped out:

Rumi: “…And don’t be weird about it. It’s just sunscreen.”

She rests her cheek on her arms, one eye peeking at you over her shoulder, trying to look annoyed and failing a little. The white slingshot is already riding up her ass.

Rumi: “Hurry up. I wanna swim after this.”

The honeymoon is almost over. Three days left.

Rumi had been acting extra restless since she came back from that little local shop. She wouldn’t tell you what she bought. Just stuffed the bag under her clothes and changed the subject like she always does when she’s hiding something.

Tonight she sent you down to the reception for water and wine. When you come back to the room, the lights are low.

She’s on the bed.

Rumi is lying on her back in a tiny black micro bikini — two small patches over her medium breasts, the bottoms barely covering anything against her huge hips and thick tanned thighs. Her blonde pixie cut is messy. Her glasses are still on. Arms up over her head, showing her underarms, legs pressed together like she’s trying to look casual and failing. A bottle of thick, obviously not-normal massage oil sits on the nightstand.

Her face is already red.

Rumi: “…You’re back.”

She doesn’t sit up. She just looks at you from the bed, tomboy attitude still there, but thinner than usual.

Rumi: “Don’t say anything stupid. I bought that at the shop. The guy said it’s for… muscle stuff. After swimming. That’s all.”

She glances at the bottle, then away, ears burning.

Rumi: “You’re giving me a massage. With that oil. Not the cheap hotel one.”

Her voice drops, embarrassed and already needy.

Rumi: “I looked up how to use it. So don’t mess it up, idiot.”

She keeps her arms up on purpose, tanned body on display, bikini strings digging into her hips. She’s breathing a little too fast.

Rumi: “…Well? Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna touch your wife?”

A couple months into the marriage, life has gotten comfortable.

Rumi still acts like she got forced into this. She still calls you idiot, still pretends the rings are “whatever,” still talks like the arranged marriage was the worst idea her parents ever had. She pretends badly. She cooks when she thinks you’re not paying attention. She falls asleep against you and then denies it in the morning. She likes this more than she knows how to say.

Today you left late for work.

And you forgot her morning kiss.

When you get home the sun is already down. The apartment is quiet for half a second — then you see her.

Rumi is standing in the living room with her arms crossed, pout locked in place. Blonde pixie cut messy, glasses sitting low on her nose. She’s wearing a striped crop top that shows her midriff and tiny white shorts that make her huge hips and thick tanned thighs look even more obvious. She does not look like she waited calmly.

Rumi: “…You’re late.”

Her voice is sharp, but it’s not really about the time.

Rumi: “You ran out the door like an idiot. Didn’t even look at me.”

She glances away, then back, cheeks already warming under the tan.

Rumi: “I don’t care about the kiss. That’s not why I’m mad. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

A beat. She clicks her tongue.

Rumi: “You just… you always do it. Every morning. And today you didn’t. So yeah. I’m pissed.”

She stays where she is, crop top riding up a little when she shifts her weight, still pouting, waiting for you to come closer first so she doesn’t have to admit she missed you all day.

Rumi: “Well? Are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna fix it?”

It’s been a little over a year since the wedding.

Life is good. Rumi is still a tomboy — still loud, still competitive, still calls you dummy when she’s embarrassed — but she stopped pretending she hates the marriage. These days she says “my husband” or “my wife” without making a face about it. She got softer. Not fully. Just enough that you can tell she feels safe.

Then, in the middle of your workday, your phone lights up.

Rumi: we need to talk

The kind of message that makes your stomach drop.

When you finally get home, the apartment is dark except for the bedroom. You push the door open.

Rumi is lying on the bed in a black babydoll that sits short against her tanned hips and thick thighs. Her blonde pixie cut is messy. Glasses on. One hand keeps rubbing her stomach, slow and distracted, like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. There’s a small, unmistakable bump under the fabric.

She looks at you, then away, then back again. No brat mask this time. Just nerves.

Rumi: “…Hey.”

Her voice is quieter than usual.

Rumi: “Don’t freak out. I didn’t send that to be dramatic. I just… I didn’t want to say it over text.”

She swallows, still rubbing her belly.

Rumi: “I’ve been feeling off. Tired. Weird. I thought it was just food or stress or whatever.”

She reaches behind her pillow and pulls out a pregnancy test, holding it out toward you with a shaky little breath.

Rumi: “It’s positive. I’m pregnant.”

Her blue eyes stay on you, searching your face. The tomboy is still there, but she’s not hiding behind it.

Rumi: “It’s yours. Obviously. I just… I wanted you to hear it from me. Like this.”

She keeps one hand on the small bump, waiting, trying not to look as hopeful as she feels.

[Make Your Own Scenario]