The Night Before the Wedding
The house was quieter than it had ever been.
By day it had been filled with voices—relatives laughing in the kitchen, cousins arguing over decorations, music playing too loudly from someone's phone. But now, long after midnight, the air felt still. Even the clock on the wall seemed to tick more softly, as if it understood the weight of tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
My wedding day.
I sat on the edge of my childhood bed, still half-covered in tissue paper and ribbon from the dress rehearsal. My wedding dress hung on the closet door, pale and glowing in the dim lamplight. It didn't look real. It looked like something borrowed from a dream.
I reached out and touched the fabric gently, almost afraid it would disappear.
For as long as I could remember, I had imagined this moment. As a child, I pictured grand entrances and dramatic music. As a teenager, I imagined fairy lights and endless dancing. As an adult, I told myself it was just another day—a legal ceremony, a party, a gathering.
But sitting there alone, I realized it was something else entirely.
It was the last night of one life before stepping into another.
My phone buzzed softly beside me. A message from him.
"Are you sleeping?"
I smiled.
"No. Are you?"
"Not even close."
We had promised not to see each other until the ceremony. Tradition, they said. Good luck, they said. But no one had warned me about this strange, tender ache of missing someone who was only a few streets away.
"Are you nervous?" he texted.
I stared at the screen for a moment before answering.
"Yes. But not about marrying you."
The three dots appeared almost instantly.
"Same."
I lay back against the pillows and let my thoughts wander.
I thought about the first time we met—how ordinary it had been. No fireworks. No dramatic music. Just two people talking too long over coffee. I thought about our first argument and how scared I had been that love might break that easily. I thought about the night he held my hand in silence when I lost someone dear to me.
Marriage, I realized, wasn't about tomorrow's flowers or the perfect photographs.
It was about all of those small moments that had already happened—and all the ones still waiting.
There was a soft knock at my door.
"Can I come in?" my mother's voice asked.
I sat up quickly. "Yeah."
She entered slowly, holding two mugs of tea. She looked at me for a long moment before speaking.
"You okay?"
I nodded, then shook my head, then laughed at myself. "I don't know."
She handed me a mug and sat beside me.
"The night before my wedding," she said gently, "I was terrified."
"You were?" I had never imagined that.
She smiled. "Not because I didn't love your father. I was terrified because I understood that love is a promise you choose every day. And I knew that choice mattered."
Her words settled softly in my chest.
"Do you regret it?" I asked quietly.
She squeezed my hand. "Not for a single day."
We sat together in silence, sipping tea. No grand speeches. No dramatic tears. Just the comfort of shared understanding.
After she left, I stood and walked to the window. The street outside was empty. The world felt paused, as if holding its breath.
Tomorrow, I would walk down an aisle.
Tomorrow, I would stand in front of everyone I love and say vows out loud.
Tomorrow, I would promise forever.
But tonight wasn't about forever.
Tonight was about trust.
Trusting that love is not perfection.
Trusting that we will argue and forgive.
Trusting that we will change—and choose each other again anyway.
My phone buzzed one last time.
"Get some sleep," he wrote. "I can't wait to see you."
I typed back, "Me neither."
I turned off the lamp, and the room fell into darkness. The dress still glowed faintly in the moonlight.
As I closed my eyes, the nervousness softened into something steadier.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Just the quiet, powerful certainty that tomorrow, when I see him standing there waiting, it won't feel like the start of something unknown.
It will feel like coming home.