HIS PROV
Why do people always say, I fell in love with you?
Why not something deeper—something that doesn’t carry the weight of inevitability, of destruction? Something like, I don’t know, I’m captivated by you. You linger in my thoughts, threading through my mind like an unbroken melody, a presence I cannot silence no matter how hard I try.
Oh, right. Something like, I am utterly bewitched by you. Cursed, if you will—bound by something far greater than logic, something inescapable. Hexed.
But falling? Why always falling? Falling is never graceful. It is never gentle. Falling scrapes, it wounds, it leaves you raw.
You don’t just stumble—you plummet. The ground doesn’t catch you—it crushes you. Bones snap, skin splits, and the pain is not just sharp, it is merciless. And when the agony is unbearable, you don’t simply cry—you fracture. You unravel.
So no. Hell no. Don’t ever fall in love. Just be in love. Or grow in love. Growth is infinite. It doesn’t break you—it shapes you. It stretches, it strengthens, it breathes.
Falling? Falling always ends in the wreckage.
Right, you’re wondering why I’m giving you this pep talk. Isn’t it obvious? I fell in love once. And when she smiled at me, I thought—just for a second—that she had fallen too.
What a fool, right? What a goddamn fool.
So, you want to know why I fucking hate falling in love? Fine. I’ll tell you.
I fell for her. A girl who wasn’t too tall, wasn’t too short. Just her. A young lass at sixteen, while I was eighteen.
And I kept it to myself.
Back then, I was the quiet type. Shy. An introvert who never had the courage to chase what he wanted. So I admired her from afar, let my feelings grow in silence, let them root so deep that pulling them out would have torn me apart.
And with every passing day, I fell harder.
By the time I was twenty-six and she was twenty-four, I had finally mustered enough courage—or maybe just enough desperation—to confess.
We weren’t strangers anymore. She worked in my father’s company, in the management section. Our paths crossed often. She was still the same—ever the enthusiastic, ever the cheerful type.
And her smile… damn, her smile. It wasn’t just bright—it was the kind of light that could warm the coldest soul. And her eyes? They smiled too, crinkling at the corners like she was always carrying the sun within her.
She was, if not the most beautiful girl in the country, then maybe—just maybe—the most beautiful girl in the whole goddamn world.
I just kept falling. Deeper and deeper. So deep that there was no ground left to catch me. One year later, when the rain wouldn’t stop whispering, urging me, to go for it, I finally did.
I told her.
"Ireen, I’m in love with you. Will you be my girlfriend? Marriage in mind."
I know. It was reckless. Maybe even stupid. But that’s what happens when you love someone—you don’t just want them for a season, you want them for forever.
And then, three days later, the twist.
I had told her to take her time, to think it through, and yet—
"Okay! Let’s date… with marriage in mind."
She said it with a bright smile, and just like that, I became the happiest man on earth.
Looking back, I should have questioned it. How smooth everything was, how fast it all moved. But when you’re crazily in love, doubts don’t exist. There’s only her.
And then, just like something ripped straight out of a scripted scene, reality hit.
Two months in, I realized we weren’t like any normal married couple. She wanted separate rooms until she felt ready—I agreed. She wanted a personal account, one where I would deposit ten thousand every month—I obliged without hesitation.
It didn’t feel strange at first. I was loaded, after all. And if I was going to spoil someone, it was her.
But then, something changed.
It was subtle at first. She stopped smiling as much. Her once vibrant energy dulled, her moods unpredictable, her laughter—a sound I had come to love—slowly disappeared. She wasn’t just tired. She was drained.
Four months in, the truth unraveled.
She had a stepmother. One I had never met. One who was sick—desperately in need of immediate surgery. And she had no choice. She had to save her.
So she married me.
Not for love. Not because she wanted me.
But because she needed me. My money. My status. My willingness to give.
I know what you’re thinking.
Confront her. Demand answers. Walk away and take it all back. Play the villain—make her suffer just as she did to me.
Or maybe, be the romantic fool. Fix it. Love her harder. Hope that one day, eventually, she would fall for me too.
That’s how it happens in the movies, right?
Yeah. I should have done one of those. But you know what?
Like I said, I’m a coward.
My heart didn’t just break—it shattered. A million pieces, too scattered to piece back together. My mind spun, flooded with questions I couldn’t answer. I wanted to scream, but the sound never left my throat.
I wanted to cry, but the image of myself—pathetic, broken—disgusted me.
I wanted to confront her. Ask her why.
But I was afraid of the answer.
In the end, I hated falling in love. I couldn’t stay in that house, couldn’t stand the echoes of memories that mocked me at every turn. The naivety. The foolishness. The lie.
So I sat in a dark corner, laughing at myself. Fighting battles in my head. Imagine all the confrontations, all the endings—none of which ever came to be.
