The devotion in those young eyes, steady as starlight, was intoxicating. In that moment, all my shyness and fear melted into something soft and boundless. I took the roses, their delicate fragrance filling my senses, and looked at him—so bashful, so sincere. Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.
"Yes," I whispered.
After that, Max treated me like a princess. He remembered everything—that I hated cilantro, picking every last leaf from my bowl at meals. When my period came, he'd clumsily brew ginger tea with brown sugar to warm my stomach, insisting I finish it even when it tasted terrible. In winter, he'd tuck my hands into his coat pockets, holding them tight. "As long as I'm here," he'd say, "you'll never be cold." When I was sad, he'd pull me into his arms and stroke my back. "Don't be scared. I've got you."
Those days were sweet and warm. I believed the tenderness would last forever. I believed I'd finally found a home of my own, someone who truly loved me. I gave him everything—cooked his meals, managed his life, forgave his moods and temper. Because I loved him.
But the sweetness didn't last.