She loved him, in her own way. 

But she had never intended to marry so early, nor to someone so inherently….sweet. And though he loved her for the elusive glimmer of something more, something true and pure, he could never manage to bring that glimmer to the forefront. 

She hadn’t been raised to love, but to do right by the demands of blood and ancestors and tradition.

So even as she lay in the arms of another man - someone who could be what her grandmother had taught her was a true man - she thought fleetingly of the one who waited home for her, and swore again she would never let him know.

For she did, after all, love him.

In her own way. 

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