"What do you mean I can't pick my own dress?!" I exploded, my voice shaking with rage. "What do you mean my mother picked out my wedding dress for me?! I already saw a dress I like, and I want to wear it! I don't care what she told you, I need to pick my own dress!"
I glared at the designers, who looked like they were about to faint. They glanced at my auntie, hoping she'd intervene, but she just stood there, a look of pity on her face.
"At least look at the brighter side," she said, trying to calm me down. "You weren't forced to wear your grandmother's wedding dress like I was. I looked like a hippie!"
I breathed out a sigh, trying to calm down, but my anger was still simmering just below the surface. I followed the designers back to the dressing room, my mind racing with thoughts of rebellion.
The dress was laid out, a breathtaking masterpiece of intricate lace and shimmering satin. The bodice was adorned with delicate crystals that sparkled like diamonds, and the full skirt fell in soft folds to the floor, creating a dramatic silhouette. The dress was a work of art, a true showstopper that seemed to glow with an inner light.
They helped me into the dress, and I gazed at my reflection, my breath catching in my throat. The dress was... wow. It was a fairytale come true, the kind of gown that made you feel like a princess. The crystals sparkled and shimmered, casting a magical glow over my skin, and the way the dress hugged my curves was nothing short of perfection.
But I wasn't convinced. I went through the motions, trying on the dress and making adjustments, but my heart wasn't in it.but it wasn't mine. It was my mother's choice, not mine.
When I came out, my auntie smiled. "You're going to be the most beautiful bride," she said.
But I just shook my head, feeling trapped and suffocated.
When we got home, my dad asked me how the dress fitting went. I told him it went well, trying not to give away my true feelings.
"Good," he said. "Your mother picked the best dress for you. You should be grateful."
I looked at my mom, forcing a smile. "Thank you," I said, trying to sound sincere.
My brother squeezed my hand under the table, a silent show of support. I appreciated it, but it didn't change the fact that I was trapped in this nightmare.
As we ate, my dad told me that tomorrow was going to be a busy day. "You're getting your hair done," he said, like it was a done deal.
I felt a surge of anger, but I kept it in.
The dinner table was tense, with only the sound of clinking utensils breaking the silence. I couldn't help but wonder what else lay ahead, what other decisions my parents would make for me without my input.
After dinner, I excused myself, citing exhaustion. I went straight to my room, where I found my brother waiting for me. He didn't say a word, just hugged me tightly, letting me know he was there for me.
I felt a lump form in my throat as I hugged him back. We didn't need words to communicate; we knew what the other was thinking. We'd been through enough together to understand the unspoken language.
As we pulled back, my brother's eyes locked onto mine. "You'll get through this," he whispered. "We'll get through this together."
I nodded, feeling a glimmer of determination. I wouldn't let them break me. I'd find a way to survive this, no matter what it took.