The words feel both too small and too large. Like they should carry more weight than two syllables can hold.
Arthur says his "I do" without hesitation.
Steady. Certain. Like he's confirming a proposal he's already reviewed three times. Not even a breath out of place.
The judge nods, satisfied, like someone who’s seen this moment unfold in a hundred different ways, and continues.
Rings are exchanged—simple, unadorned bands that feel heavier than they should when slipped into place.
The ring is cooler than my skin.
I notice that his thumb brushes my knuckle.
Arthur doesn’t look at me when he slides the ring into place.
I watch his focus narrow. He watches his hand, as if making sure he does this correctly the first time.
The judge clears her throat.
When I take his hand to return the gesture, I notice the faint calluses on his palm. Something I never expected. Evidence of something physical, something human beneath all that control.
The ring fits perfectly.
Of course it does.
My chest feels full. Too many sensations at once to separate or label.
The judge declares us married in the same tone she likely uses for every couple that comes through this room.
"Congratulations," she says, her kind smile appearing before she reaches for the next file.
That's it.
We're married.
There is no pause after the ceremony.
No congratulations from staff. No champagne. No photographs.
No one seems to be waiting for more.
Someone says my name.
I turn automatically—expecting congratulations, instruction, anything.
Instead, an ERS staffer hands me a pen and points to a highlighted line.
“Initial here.”
The judge is already calling the next names—the couple with the notebook, stepping forward with the same measured detachment we just left behind.
Arthur doesn't reach for me again.
And I don't reach for him.
We walk side by side through the ERS corridors, our footsteps in sync but our bodies carefully separate.
He opens doors out of habit. Speaks to staff in low, efficient tones. Already transitioning out of the moment.
