I married a dying man.
The dress was pure ivory, laced at the top and tucked in around my chest. My curled, blonde hair was clipped back with blue ribbons from my face.
He was just as I imagined him to be. Tailored suit, shiny shoes, so handsome it made my heart flutter.
It was a perfect day. Genuinely, I never knew before how special it would actually be.
I don't regret a second.
Everyone said it was a waste of time and money but - for him, for me, it was what we wanted.
If all the time we could have together was 6 months, I would take it.
We took it.
With both hands, clenched teeth and held on to it with all our strength.
Our honeymoon, a whole month stolen away with just the two of us. I didn't care how angry it made his mum, it was the most incredible time of my life.
But he's gone now.
I watched him die.
The doctors had been generous, he never made six months.
But I don't regret marrying him. Never.
So I write this now, as a memento, a reminder of the happiness, the love, and our promises.
And despite how lost I feel without him, I honour the promise I made him as I stand tall and walk in to life.
Living my promise to live twice as well, love twice as hard.
To live for him now, too.
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