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“You’re really okay with this, right?” Zoro asked me again, his voice barely above the soft rustle of the wind that carried incense and jasmine through the air.
I nodded, “I will be. Better than marrying a stranger.”
Zoro was my college classmate. The kind of man, whose name came with a knowing smile or a disapproving shake of the head—known for his charm, infamous for his drunken escapades and an ever-rotating cast of lovers. He was the life of every party, the kind of boy you don’t bring home to your parents.
He was—he is—my friend. And now, my shield. Or more accurately, my beard.
***
“Never thought Zoro would marry Vivi of all people,” our college friends whispered, the murmurs echoing through the old cathedral courtyard.
“Were you two even close back then?”
We weren’t—not in the way people assumed closeness should look. He went to the parties, I would never stay past midnight. That wasn’t my world. He knew it. And somehow, we still grew close.
“Vivi, you know his history,” someone asked again, their tone teetering between concern and curiosity.
“He’s honest,” I replied. “He won’t build walls in my path. That’s more than I can say for most.”
“Vivi, let’s go.” His voice broke through the blur of flowers and music and blessings. My husband—such a strange word to wear—was calling me.
This wasn’t the life I dreamed of. I never thought I’d be married. Least of all like this. Least of all to the college ‘Chad’.
***
It all began on the terrace of my ex-boyfriend’s apartment—the usual evening of smoke rings, laughter, and the kind of conversations that dissolve into the night. Zoro was his friend, someone who passed the lighter, made jokes too fast to follow, and seemed to always exist at the edge of the moment, as if nothing ever truly touched him. I remember him offering me a cigarette. I said no, but he smiled anyway, like he already knew I wouldn’t take it.
Zoro rarely came to class, yet somehow was adored by nearly everyone. Women—regardless of whether they desired him—admired him. Men, tolerated him, envied him, or outright disliked his presence. He had a magnetic ease about him.
We didn’t talk much back then. He was loud, unpredictable. I was quiet, cautious. Our worlds brushed shoulders occasionally, especially during my relationship with my ex. Once, out of nowhere, Zoro looked at me and asked, “What do you even see in that guy?”
I didn’t know. Back then, I think I believed I had to like someone. A guy. A man. Like that was the price of being normal. So I did. Or at least I tried to.
After the breakup, I thought I’d be done with all of them—my ex, his world, and everything that came with it. But life had other plans. Zoro kept reappearing. Through college fests, through shared friends, in classes we both barely attended. He was always there, always orbiting.
One day, on a whim, I messaged him on Snapchat. “New girlfriend?” I asked, more out of habit than curiosity. I didn’t expect him to reply.
But he did. And then he replied again. And again. What started as harmless banter turned into something softer. He opened up. He spoke about his family, or what was left of it. “My father went to buy milk and never came back,” he jokes. The way he said it made me laugh before I realized he wasn’t entirely kidding.
I never truly related to his chaos. But I understood what it meant to grow up feeling like the ground beneath you might shift at any moment. That was enough for him.
Despite everything—our differences, our cynicism, we became friends.
Not the daily sort. But the type of friendship that endures through late-night texts and months of silence. Where a message like “You alive?” or “Ever feel like disappearing?” was understood without explanation.
***
One night, somewhere between our usual late-night meandering texts—equal parts sarcasm, oversharing, and accidental vulnerability—Zoro sent me a message that made me pause.
“I have an unhinged thought. If we’re both single at 28, let’s marry each other.”
I blinked at the screen. Typical Zoro, dramatic and oddly sincere at the same time.
He followed up almost instantly: “I’m drunk, just so you know.”
I laughed. “Me and you?”
“No,” he replied. “Me and the ghost next door.”
I rolled my eyes and typed back, “Okay, fine. But at 30.”
We were 23. It felt like a harmless joke—one of those throwaway promises you make in the middle of emotional honesty and sleep deprivation. I was so sure that life would pull us apart. We were young, too unfinished, too unanchored. There were years ahead of us, years that could undo everything.
He could get bored of his own chaos and settle into something stable. He could fall in love—really fall—and marry someone who calmed the storm inside him. Or I could move away, into a different city or country, and start over somewhere no one knew my name or story. We could stop talking altogether. Drift. Grow up. Grow out.
Maybe we’d forget. Maybe it would become one of those awkward things you both remember but never mention—like a postcard you wrote and never sent.
But in that moment, the idea felt strangely comforting.
He craved freedom. I craved safety. And somehow, in this twisted, poetic kind of way, we could offer those things to each other. Even within the golden cage of matrimony, we could build something honest. A lavender marriage—two people standing shoulder to shoulder, not out of passion or possession, but out of solidarity. Out of shared defiance.
That idea wasn’t romance. It was relief. A quiet promise that when the rest of the world felt unbearable, someone would stand beside you, not trying to fix it, not trying to own you, just... present. Witnessing. Holding space.
It wasn’t love, but it was something with no language.
I believed that time would bury the pact. That life would get loud, and messy, and beautiful, and painful, and we’d both find other paths. That this little promise would disappear beneath careers, breakups, victories, and distance.
***
Years passed. At 28, I was still dodging conversations, marriage proposals, and pitying eyes at family gatherings. And then his voice came through the phone:
“Do you remember our pact?”
He didn’t ask if I was ready.
He asked as if he already knew the answer.
And I… I exhaled like I had been holding my breath for years.
***
The wedding was grand. Too grand. White roses, ivory lace, hymns, and the scent of frankincense drifting through stained glass windows. The church bells didn’t sound celebratory—they felt like endings. Or maybe beginnings cloaked in mystery.
Our parents were relieved. The pressure was off. His mother, kind and hopeful, welcomed me with open arms. I wondered if she saw the truth—or simply chose peace over reality.
***
That night, Zoro slept soundly beside me. Drunk again. I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in years, not since leaving home. There was comfort in his presence. Not romantic. Not lustful. Just… not alone.
***
The next morning, I packed my bags. A business trip, I told the family. An escape, I whispered to myself.
“I’ll drop you at the airport,” he said, already slipping into the role of husband with alarming ease.
He played music on the drive. His playlist was still good—melancholy tracks with just the right amount of ache.
He glanced at my hand. “You’re going to wear your ring?”
The simple gold band caught the early sunlight. “Yeah. I’m your wife now.”
“You don’t expect me to wear it, do you?”
I smiled faintly. “No. Not really.”
***
At the airport, he extended his hand from the driver’s seat. “Vivi, come back home once in a while. I’ll be glad to perform my husband duties.” He jokes.
I laughed, even though we both knew what he meant. The performances we’d now have to give. To family. To society.
Sex will never be part of our story.
Lavender marriages are like that.
***
As the flight took off, I looked out at the shrinking world below—the miniature houses, winding roads, and the church steeple disappearing into clouds.
In another life, I imagine myself seated quietly in one of those pews, watching him smile—not the careful, practiced smile he wore few days ago, but something real. I imagine him turning toward someone he truly loves, someone who stirs that chaotic heart of his into stillness, as he takes vows that mean more than just social armor, someone like Sanji.
And me? I’m not in white. I’m not wearing silk or gold. I’m holding the hand of the woman I love—someone like me, someone like Nami, someone who sees me without translation. Our fingers intertwined like roots. No pretending. No coded glances. Just truth, in full light.
In that life, I don’t have to lie. I don’t have to shrink myself to fit into someone else's expectations. In that life, my love isn’t hidden behind polite smiles and ambiguous phrasing. It’s named. It’s known. It’s held.
But this life—this strange, necessary arrangement—is what I have.
Not love, not quite.
But presence. Kindness. A pact forged in longing and self-preservation. A shared silence in the middle of a world that talks too loudly.
And maybe that’s not such a terrible thing.
Because I am not alone.
And somehow, that is enough.
—for now.