“Is it me or does the term ‘newlyweds’ have an awkward connotation to it?”

“I think it’s just us.”

“…the perks of being in an arranged marriage, eh?”

“Sure,” he breathes. “We’ll get used to this eventually. What do you want to eat?”

Even if the two of you are in an awkwardly save-the-company arranged marriage, Henry’s not the evil son and you’re not the gold-digger daughter. If you weren’t given a fair chance at love, then so be it.

Henry is awfully talented for a twenty-three year old, which makes you feel nearly worthless when standing next to him, but he doesn’t flaunt his abilities around like the other bachelors that might have appeared on the front step of your door. His smiles always calm you down, surprisingly, and to yourself, you think this will work and maybe slowly fall in love.

What discourages you from feeling that is because you know he’s in love with another woman far better than you but forced into this arranged marriage with you, a plain Jane. The first time you called him by his Chinese name, his entire figure stiffened and his voice turned cold when he asked you to never call him by that again. You think it may have to do with his girlfriend, but you’re planning something.

“I’ll make some noodles for you,” you answer and make your way towards the kitchen.

Any meal of the day is a quiet affair, occasional questions about each other’s day and such, and you’re okay with that.

Most of the time, you’re afraid to ask him anything, but it has been a while and you don’t want the instrument to collect too much dust.

“Henry, can I ask you a favor?”

You never ask for favors and see the surprise in his eyes as he closes the magazine.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” you lightly chuckle. “I just wanted to know if you could play something for me.”

“Okay.”

He opens the case sitting on the other side of the room and grabs a cloth to clean the violin carefully of possible dust and rosin residue. You make your way towards the couch and watch him tighten his bow and rosin it before position the shoulder rest on the back and turning towards you. “Any preferences?” he questions.

You shake your head. “Whatever you feel like playing.”

It takes him a second or two to think of something, but when his bow plays a low G, you close your eyes and listen. Henry is so passionate when he plays, his emotions pouring through even when you’re not looking. You can feel it, his pain, his heartbreak, his conflicting emotions, his longing for his previous life with that girl that you can never be. A few measures in, you recognize the piece as Bruch’s Concerto No. 1 in G minor, the first movement, and your breath catches in your throat.

When he hits the last note and lets the A-flat linger in the air, you’re so moved and heartbroken, his emotions and playing hardening your future decision. You’ll give him that life back. You promise.

“Are you crying?”

Your eyes snap open because you didn’t even know you were crying. That’s how beautiful his playing and heart is.

“Oh wow, I didn’t even know,” you give a watery laugh, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. He chuckles and packs his instrument up before turning in.

Still going over your decision, you end up falling asleep on the couch into the heartbreaking dreamland.