Sophie’s POV
I've been sitting at the dining table for hours, surrounded by crumpled paper like evidence of a crime.
My laptop is open to a blank document titled "Wedding Vows - FINAL" that mocks me with its emptiness. Beside it, my notebook is filled with crossed-out attempts, each one feeling more inadequate than the last.
How do you promise forever in a few sentences? How do you capture everything you feel—the love, the fear, the certainty mixed with doubt—in words meant to be spoken in front of two hundred people?
Every attempt comes out either too generic (we'll build a life together, support each other's dreams), too dramatic (you are my entire world, my reason for breathing), or not honest enough to reflect the complicated reality of us.
The doorbell rings, saving me from another failed attempt. I open it to find Bellamy with Noah, who immediately lights up when he sees me.
"Miss Sophie!" He barrels into the apartment, making a beeline for where Amelia is doing tummy time on her play mat. "I brought my new cars to show Mimi!"
Bellamy follows more slowly, carrying a small bag of Noah's things.
"Eleanor suggested a playdate," he explains. "Thought it might be good for the kids to spend time together before the wedding chaos."
"Perfect timing," I say, and I mean it. The distraction is welcome. "I've been staring at these vows for hours and getting nowhere."
I settle Noah on the floor with Amelia, watching as he arranges his collection of toy cars around her like she's the center of an elaborate traffic system.
He provides running commentary in that earnest toddler voice, explaining which car is fastest, which one is Daddy's favorite, which one baby Mimi should like best. Amelia watches with fascination, occasionally reaching for the colorful toys.
Bellamy positions himself on the couch where he can watch both kids, and I return to my spot at the dining table. I pick up my pen, stare at the latest attempt, cross it out with more force than necessary. The sound of my frustrated sigh must be audible across the room.
"What are you working on?" Bellamy asks after a moment.
I hesitate. The answer feels dangerous somehow, too intimate given everything unspoken between us. But I'm exhausted and frustrated and his opinion suddenly matters more than I want to admit.
"My vows," I say quietly. "For the wedding."
The pause that follows is heavy, loaded with everything neither of us can say. I don't look at him, keeping my eyes fixed on the crumpled papers in front of me. The silence stretches uncomfortable and electric.
"Do you want help?" Bellamy's voice is careful, measured.
"Help?" I glance up, surprised.
"Not writing them," he clarifies quickly. "But listening. Sometimes hearing words aloud helps identify what's wrong. What's not working."
I should say no.
Should recognize this is wildly inappropriate—reading my wedding vows to the man I've been fighting feelings for, the man who admitted he'd come running if I asked, the man whose hands on my wrists felt more intimate than anything I've done with my actual fiancé lately.
But I'm desperate. And some self-destructive part of me wants this—wants to know what Bellamy will say, how he'll react, what his face will reveal when he hears me promise forever to someone else.
"Okay," I hear myself agree.
I pick up the notebook, flipping past all the failed attempts to the most recent version. My hands are shaking slightly as I smooth the page. This feels significant somehow, like a moment I won't be able to take back.
"These are rough," I warn. "Unfinished. Just... remember that."
Bellamy nods, his expression carefully neutral. But I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands grip his knees.
I take a breath and begin reading.
"Adrian—when you walked into my life, you challenged everything I thought I knew about myself. You pushed me to be smarter, work harder, think deeper. You saw potential in me I didn't know existed and demanded I live up to it."
My voice wavers slightly but I continue.
"You've shown me what it means to choose someone daily, to build a partnership that makes us both stronger. To love someone not despite their complexity but because of it. You've given me a daughter, a family, a future I never dared to imagine."
I pause, scanning ahead to the next part. The words look hollow on the page but I press on.
"I promise to be your partner in every sense—to support your ambitions, to challenge you when you need it, to stand beside you through whatever comes.”
My throat tightens. I force myself to continue.
“I promise to build a life with you that honors both who we are individually and who we become together. I promise to choose you, to choose us, to choose this life we're creating—today and every day forward."
The final lines feel like they should carry more weight, more certainty. But they just sit there on the page, technically adequate but emotionally flat.
When I finish, I look up at Bellamy. His expression is completely unreadable—jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping, eyes dark with something he's barely controlling.
The silence that follows is unbearable.
I watch him war with himself, see the careful control it takes to maintain his neutral expression.
Noah's cheerful narration about cars provides surreal background noise to this charged moment—innocent childhood joy contrasting sharply with the adult complications happening above his head.
Finally, Bellamy swallows hard. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than usual, strained with the effort of staying composed.
"Those are very beautiful words, Sophie."
But the way he says it—the tone, the finality, the barely concealed pain beneath the careful politeness—it doesn't sound like a compliment. It sounds like goodbye.
Like he's releasing me, acknowledging that I've made my choice and he has to accept it. Like he's hearing the door close between us and forcing himself not to try and hold it open.
The space between us feels impossibly vast despite being only a few feet. I want to say something—what, I don't know. Apologize? Explain? Ask him what he's thinking, what he would say if he were honest?
But Noah chooses that moment to call out, "Daddy! Watch this!" and the spell breaks. Bellamy tears his gaze from mine, turning his full attention to his son's elaborate car race demonstration.
I look back down at my vows, at the words I just read aloud, and they feel even more inadequate than before.
Because I heard them through Bellamy's ears, saw his face as I promised forever to someone else, and the disconnect between what I'm saying and what I'm feeling has never been more obvious.
Beautiful words, he said. But not true ones, not completely.
I close the notebook, the pages heavy with promises I'm not sure I can keep, and wonder if Bellamy heard all the things I didn't say—the hesitations I tried to hide, the certainty I tried to perform, the doubt I couldn't quite eliminate from my voice.