About Unwritten

In exactly twelve hours, I’ll be getting married right here, in my childhood home.

No ballroom, no aisle, no string quartet. Just the same living room where I once did my homework, argued with my siblings, and spent weekends half-watching TV. It feels strange, sacred even, that the place that raised me will also witness this next chapter.

The decorations are simple a mix of red and white, a truce between my mother’s traditions and my minimalist heart. Xia’s hopping around somewhere, probably unimpressed by the whole thing. My gown’s hanging quietly in the corner, still in its garment bag, waiting for the morning.

There’s a calm in the air that I didn’t expect. I thought I’d feel nervous jittery, emotional, overwhelmed. But instead, it feels… full. Like everything that was supposed to happen, did.

I’m here, typing this in the same room where my younger self used to dream about what love would look like. It’s not the fairytale I imagined, but it’s better quieter, truer, built on small things that feel big when you look closely.

Twelve hours from now, we’ll exchange vows in front of the people who matter most. My parents, my siblings, my grandmother. The ones who’ve seen me grow, fall, rebuild, and love again.

And maybe that’s what marriage really is not the grand beginning of something new, but a quiet continuation of everything that’s led you here.