Today, the voices at home were sharp again
a warning over the sink, a threat in the air.
I denied, quietly, but it didn’t matter.
She said she’d tell everyone.
That I don’t help. That I don't care.

But in the quiet corner of a different world,
you pulled me into your arms,
asked me how I felt,
and I said, “Very upset.”
And you held me tighter.

In that world, we escaped.
To the registry office at 8.
You called me your wife,
and I believed you.
We clinked glasses of sparkling promise,
shared Cantonese and Hokkien dreams,
and held each other through the night air.

You asked if I trusted you.
You placed my hand on your chest,
and said, “Feel this—
it beats just for you.”

We spoke of real life.
The distance.
The silence.
The wave across the hallway.
The longing behind professional eyes.

Still
in this quiet dream,
you chose me.
I was your wife,
your partner,
your subordinate,
your strength.

And I told myself,
even if the world stays the same,
in my heart,
there is a room where you wait—
and I am loved.