I remember that day in the tiniest of details.
The scent of jasmine in my hair. A white dress that rustled slightly against the floor.
And dozens of eyes burning into my back—full of pity, confusion, even disbelief.

He was sitting in the wheelchair—my fiancé. My love.
In a gray suit, with a gentle smile and eyes that held more strength than everyone else standing around us combined.
But to the others, he was a tragedy.
And I was ‘that poor girl who chose to sacrifice her life.’

I felt their stares.
Like quiet whispers, like needles under the skin.
But next to him, none of that mattered.

We met in an ordinary café. He had mixed up our orders and then smiled awkwardly:
“Sorry, I think I stole your latte.”

From that moment, I couldn’t forget his voice.
Attentive, sincere, funny. The kind of man who is rare.

And then—the call.
Night. Sirens. A metallic taste of fear in my mouth.
He survived. But his legs no longer obeyed.

I remember standing at his hospital bedside, holding his hand.
He said:
“You don’t need to be with me out of pity.”
And I answered:
“This isn’t pity. It’s love.”

The wedding was small but beautiful. Music, lights, fresh flowers.
I felt my heart beat—not with nerves, but with joy.

Until the stares began.
Those stares.
Sympathetic. Pitying.
As if I had made a sacrifice.

Then something happened no one expected.

After the first dance—he sat while I twirled around him—he asked for the microphone.
Hands trembling. Voice hoarse, strained.

“I have a gift for you,” he said. “And I hope you’re ready.”

His brother stepped up, standing beside him, supporting him.
He placed his hands on his shoulders… and then—he rose.

The room went silent, as if someone had muted the world.
He was standing. Unsteady. With effort.
But he was standing.

And then—a step.
One.
Then another.

He walked toward me.
Each step—a miracle. Each breath—a cry from his soul.

“I promised I’d do this for you,” he whispered, barely holding back tears. “Even once—on my own. Because you believed in me when no one else did.”

I couldn’t hold back. I fell to my knees, hugged him, pressed against his chest, feeling him tremble.
The whole room wept. Even those who had moments ago looked at us with pity.

In that moment, I understood—I was not a victim.
I was a woman lucky enough to love a true hero.

Since then, I don’t believe in fairy tales.
I believe in love stronger than pain.
In miracles made not by magic—but by faith in each other.