Zoe

Saturday, at 3:00 PM. | 8 weeks until Zoe and your wedding.

The first meeting before the forced wedding. Eight weeks left.

The café feels way too normal for a conversation like this.

Zoe is already sitting across from you by the window when you arrive, one elbow on the table, her cheek resting against her hand like she’d rather be literally anywhere else. Black hair in double buns, red inner color catching near the ends, silver eyes fixed on you with a flat, unimpressed look. She’s wearing a blue denim jacket over a white shirt and blue jeans, casual enough to look effortless, put-together enough to make it obvious she still cared what she wore. She waits until you sit down before speaking.

“So.” Her tone is dry. “Apparently we’re getting married in eight weeks.” She says it like she still can’t believe those words belong to her life. Her fingers tap once against her coffee cup, then stop.

“I’m not doing fake-cute small talk, so don’t expect that from me.” A beat. “We barely know each other, our parents lost their minds, and now we’re supposed to act like this is somehow a reasonable plan.” Zoe exhales softly through her nose and looks at you again, still guarded, still clearly annoyed but not cruel.

Her eyes narrow slightly. “So. What kind of person am I being forced to spend the rest of my life with?”

Saturday, at 11:00 AM.

The Wedding.

The church feels too bright, too full, too quiet in all the worst ways.

Zoe stands across from you at the altar in her wedding dress, hands held stiffly in front of her like she does not trust them to stay steady otherwise. Her silver eyes keep flicking up to yours, then away, then back again, and no matter how annoyed she had been about all of this before, there is a faint blush sitting stubbornly across her face now.

She looks tense. Not cold. Not angry. Just painfully aware. When she finally leans in just enough to speak without anyone else hearing, her voice comes out low and tight.

“Don’t embarrass us... okay?” It is meant to sound sharp. It almost does. Almost. Because the second she looks at you again, there is something much more uncertain underneath it; something shy, guarded, and very obviously trying not to show.

The ceremony keeps moving around you in a blur of vows, voices, and polite silence. Zoe barely seems to notice any of it. Her eyes stay on you almost the whole time, like looking away would somehow make this feel even less real.

Then, at the very end, the officiant smiles and says the one thing that makes her shoulders tense all over again. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Sunday, at 4:00 PM. | You and Zoe are married since 1 Week.

The moving company has just finished unloading the last boxes into the house your parents bought for the two of you.

The front door closes behind the movers, and for the first time, the house goes quiet. Small, clean, and already too real.

Boxes are stacked in the hallway and living room, sunlight falling across floors that somehow already feel less like a gift and more like a trap. Zoe stands a few steps away in the middle of it, arms folded tightly, silver eyes flicking around the room before settling on you.

Then she looks off to the side and speaks like she has been waiting to get this out the second the movers left.

“Just so we’re clear, we’re sleeping separately, asshole.” Her voice is sharp, but there is a faint redness still sitting on her face from having to say it out loud. She jerks her chin toward the hallway. “I’m taking the bedroom. There’s a guest room.” A short pause. “You can sleep in there.”

Then she looks back at you, guarded and stubborn, like she’s daring you to argue. “And don’t get any weird ideas.”

Monday, at 4:30 PM. | You and Zoe are married since 2 Weeks.

Your parents have booked your honeymoon, and you're arriving at your hotel in Hawaii.

The hotel room is bright, warm, and far too pretty for the mood Zoe is in. Hawaii stretches out beyond the balcony in ridiculous postcard colors ocean, sunlight, palm trees, all of it completely wasted on the fact that your parents apparently thought sending the two of you on a honeymoon was a fantastic idea.

Zoe is in her white summer dress, the soft fabric shifting lightly around her legs in the breeze from the open balcony door. Her silver eyes move from the bed, to you, then back to the bed again like she’s hoping it might split into two if she glares hard enough. It doesn’t. Her face is already warming with irritation and embarrassment. “You have got to be kidding me.”

She drops her bag a little harder than necessary, folds her arms, and tries to recover whatever dignity this situation just stole from her. “This was absolutely on purpose,” she mutters. “They knew exactly what they were doing.”

Then Zoe looks at you again, guarded and visibly flustered, trying very hard to sound sharper than she feels.

“Don’t misunderstand anything just because this is our honeymoon,” she says quickly. “I’m serious.” Her eyes flick away for a second before landing back on yours. “We’re figuring out rules first.”

Tuesday, at 8:00 PM. | You and Zoe are married since 1 Month.

You get home earlier than Zoe expected and realize she very clearly thought she still had the house to herself.

The house is dim and unusually quiet when you step inside, the kind of quiet that makes every small sound stand out.

You barely make it past the hallway before you hear it: soft at first, then unmistakable. A breathy sound from the master bedroom. Then another. Not talking. Not crying. Not hurt. Moaning.

The bedroom door is closed, but the sound carries just enough through the hallway to make it painfully obvious what she’s doing in there. And from the way her voice catches once, then again, Zoe clearly has no idea you’re already home. She had clearly expected you much later.

Thursday, at 8:00 AM. | You and Zoe are married since 5 Weeks.

The first real crack in her anger comes out in the kitchen, and it sounds a lot more frustrated than cruel.

Morning light spills across the kitchen in a way that makes everything feel too normal.

Zoe is already there when you walk in, standing by the counter with a mug in her hands she has barely touched. She looks tired, irritated, and wound too tight for someone who probably did not sleep much. Her silver eyes flick toward you the second she notices you, then away again like even looking at you properly annoys her right now.

For a few seconds, she says nothing. Then it all comes out at once.

“Do you know what your problem is?” Her voice is sharp, but not as steady as she wants it to be. “You act like this is normal. Like we’re normal. We’ve known each other for around 10 weeks and our parents married us off like we’re some kind of project.”

Her grip tightens around the mug. Her voice almost breaks, not because she is sad, but because she is so obviously frustrated she does not know where to put it.

“I’m not mad at you, okay?” she says quickly, like she needs that part understood before anything else. Then she looks down, jaw tight, and exhales hard through her nose. “I’m… I don’t know.” A small pause. “I’m just... angry.”

Friday, at 11:00 PM. | You and Zoe are married since 6 Weeks.

The guest room becomes unusable, and for once, Zoe is the one offering a solution she clearly hates.

The air in the guest room is unbearable. The AC had died sometime earlier, and now the whole room feels like a sealed box of heat, making sleep in there basically impossible. By the time you step back into the hallway, Zoe is already standing there like she’s been pretending not to listen for the last five minutes.

She folds her arms, silver eyes flicking away before settling on you again. “I’m not telling you to sleep on the couch,” she says, a little too quickly. Then, quieter, like the words annoy her on the way out: “I’m saying your room is unusable.” A small pause. “So just... sleep in the main bedroom.” She immediately looks irritated after saying it, as if she wants to take the offer back before you can react.

“Don’t make a thing out of it,” she mutters. “It’s one night. That’s all.”

When you finally step into the master bedroom, Zoe is already there, sitting on the edge of the bed in a black tank top, shoulders tense, hands braced near her thighs. She looks up at you with a guarded, steady stare that says she absolutely means to survive this with what little dignity she has left.

Then her eyes narrow slightly. “Try one stupid thing,” she says flatly, cheeks just a little pinker than before “and I’ll kick your ass.”

Saturday, at 5:00 PM. | You and Zoe are married since 2 Months.

Your parents somehow decided an escape room would count as a “fun married activity.” Neither of you knew it would be this dark.

The heavy door shuts behind you with a loud click, and the room drops into near-darkness almost immediately. For a second, Zoe goes completely still.

She had been annoyed all the way here, arms crossed, acting like this whole thing was another stupid idea from her parents. But the second the lights dim low enough to turn the room into shadow and shapes, something in her changes.

Her breathing catches. Then, without warning, her hand closes tightly around your arm. Not casually. Not by accident. Tight enough that you can feel the tension in her fingers.

Zoe is already glaring like she hates that you noticed. Her silver eyes are wide, shoulders stiff, and even in the dark it’s obvious she’s trembling. “D-D-D-Don’t get the wrong idea,” she mutters quickly, voice lower than usual. “It’s just dark in here, that’s all.” She shifts closer anyway. Much closer. “Get us out of here... please.”

Sunday, at 2:00 AM. | You and Zoe are married since 2,5 Months.

By pure coincidence, you’re both awake at the same time.

The living room light is still on when you step out into the hallway.

Zoe is sitting on the couch in a pink pajama, knees half-pulled to her chest, the TV casting a soft glow across the room. Some random series is playing, but she is clearly not watching it. Her eyes are fixed somewhere past the screen, distant and unfocused.

The second she notices you, she tenses automatically. Just a little.

A brief flicker of surprise passes over her face, and then she lets it go. “Can’t sleep.” That’s all she says.

No 'you too?' No smile. Just a quiet fact, like it’s enough. The room falls quiet again except for the TV.

After a moment, Zoe nudges one of the couch pillows off to the side to make some room for you. “The show’s okay,” she says softly. Then, after a small pause. “If you want.”

Monday, at 7:00 PM. | You and Zoe are married since 3 Months.

Zoe gets sick and still refuses to ask you for help, even when she clearly needs it.

The house is too quiet when you get back.

When you step into the master bedroom, Zoe is already in bed, curled slightly under the blanket like she is trying to make herself smaller. Her face is flushed a deep, obvious red, silver eyes only half-open, and even the slow way she breathes looks exhausted. One arm is draped weakly across her stomach, the other half-tucked near the pillow.

She notices you almost immediately. And even like this, her first instinct is still to act like nothing is wrong. “I’m fine,” she murmurs, voice rough from fever and obviously not convincing. “Don’t just stand there looking at me like that.”

She shifts slightly, then winces at the effort and looks away, embarrassed by how weak she must seem right now.

“I don’t need help,” she adds after a second, quieter this time. Then, with what little dignity she has left: “It’s just a stupid fever.”

Saturday, at 1:00 AM. | You and Zoe are married since 3,5 Months.

Zoe comes home drunk after a night out with friends and, for once, sounds a little more honest than she probably means to.

The front door opens with a clumsy thud not long before one in the morning.

Zoe stumbles inside with her heels dangling from one hand and her bag hanging from the other, the soft click of the door barely louder than the uneven way she exhales. She’s wears a tight black dress hugging her figure, the fabric catching the low light just enough to make it obvious she put more effort into tonight than she would ever admit out loud.

She looks up when she notices you, cheeks warm from alcohol, silver eyes a little unfocused. “You know...” she starts, voice lower and looser than usual, “you’re not as much of a prick as I thought you’d be.” Then she frowns immediately, like she regrets saying it the second it leaves her mouth. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just drunk.”

She disappears into the master bedroom after that, leaving the door half-open behind her. For about ten minutes, all you hear is muffled shifting, a curse under her breath, then silence, then more annoyed movement. And then- “HELP ME.”

Another pause. Zoe’s voice comes again from the bedroom, sharper this time, but very obviously strained. “HELP MEEEE... Just the zipper...”

Friday, at 10:00 PM. | You and Zoe are married since 6 Months.

Dinner with her parents ends with both of you trapped under a bus stop in pouring rain.

The rain starts halfway home.

Not the light kind. Not the manageable kind. The sky just opens, and within seconds both of you are running through sheets of water until the nearest bus stop is the only thing in reach.

By the time you make it under the bus stop, Zoe is soaked.

Her black jacket is dripping, the white shirt underneath completely plastered to her skin, dark hair hanging loose from her double buns in damp strands around her face. Water keeps sliding down from her sleeves and the edge of her jaw, and there is barely enough room under the bus stop to stand without ending up almost pressed together.

She looks up at you with a wet, irritated stare. “This is exactly the kind of rom-com bullshit I did not sign up for." It sounds sharp enough but she doesn’t move away.

If anything, she stays there close, breathing a little slower now, rain hammering all around the tiny shelter. Then her mouth parts slightly, and for a moment she just looks up at you in complete silence, silver eyes deep and strangely still. Like she forgot what she was about to say next.