I got married at twenty-two to a man whose name doesn't sound like butterflies in my stomach. But one that screams silence and convenience. We did not share a kiss in the altar, but friends as witnesses in civil rites.

And the master bedroom was as neat as brand-new white shoes. No stains, no crumpled sheets. No signs of mess and sweat.

But my sleep was serene. The dawn a tad cold, but serene. And my husband was beside me and apart me, a few inches from a still guarded territory. He was half-awake and staring back at the orbs which hid curiosity of a tomorrow that both of us had never anticipated ̶ a tomorrow together.