A wedding—the ultimate blend of romance, dance-offs, and the eternal struggle to balance a plate of hors d’oeuvres while wearing heels. The culinary circus that unfolds when “I do” meets “Is there more cheese?”

Sia sat on the train, thinking about the wedding she was about to attend. Her gaze inexplicably drawn to the mysterious man across the the train. His eyes, like storm clouds on the verge of releasing their burden, held a story he longed to unravel. The train’s rhythmic sway seemed to echo the turmoil within him. What had brought him here? Was it loss, regret, or the weight of unspoken words? Sia wondered, her imagination weaving scenarios as the landscape blurred past the window.

“What are you wearing, Sia?” Ora’s voice cut through her reverie. “Are you crazy to wear that old T-shirt?”

“Ora,” Yeona retorted, “why do guys with glasses always look good? Look at him—the one by the train. Should I go over and give him a hug, console him?”

Ora rolled her eyes. “You’re picky, aren’t you? Stop staring at him! Now, tell me which dress you’re choosing for the wedding.”

“Honestly, Ora,” Sia sighed, “I have no idea who your friend is. Why am I even here?”

“The groom’s father is close to my mom,” Ora explained. “Haven’t seen them in years. My mom wants me to attend. We’ll dress up, eat the complimentary food, take a few pictures, and leave.”

And so, Sia and Ora—partners in crime since childhood—set off on their adventure. Ora, the aspiring fashion designer, and Sia, the dreamer who longed for London but still lived with her parents.

They arrived at the village after a three-hour journey, the place looked like a evergreen forest painted by nature’s brushstrokes. That night, they stayed at Ora’s grandmother’s house, where stories whispered through the creaking floorboards.

Morning dawned, and Sia and Ora transformed from ordinary girls into wedding guests. Who would miss a chance to shine at a grand celebration? Certainly not them.

But the wedding didn’t unfold as Sia had imagined. It lacked the jaw-dropping opulence she’d seen in movies. No cascading chandeliers or gold-plated cutlery. Instead, it was minimalistic, intimate.

Ora handed Sia a glass of wine. “The groom is quite handsome,” she whispered. “I haven’t spoken to him in ages. Should we approach him?”

“Handsome or not,” Sia replied, “he’s already married. Besides, aren’t you hungry? Let’s stuff ourselves with delicious food” as she pulled Ora away.

And then, as if scripted by fate, Sia’s phone rang. It was her sister, Aera.

“Sia,” Aera’s voice trembled, “you need to come home. Dad is hospitalized.”

Sia's heart clenched. Her father—the quiet man who’d worked tirelessly, whose hands bore the marks of labor, whose laughter had filled their home.

“What happened?” Sia asked, her voice barely audible.

“His heart,” Aera replied. “He collapsed this morning. They’re running tests, but it doesn’t look good.”

Sia glanced at Ora. “I need to go,” she said. “It’s my dad.”

Ora nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

As they rushed back, the handsome stranger at the train station faded from Sia’s mind. Now, her thoughts were only of her father.

In the hospital room, tubes and machines surrounded him. His eyes flickered open when he heard Sia's voice.

“Dad,” she choked out, “I’m here.”

He managed a weak smile. “My strong girl,” he rasped.

And so, love transcended weddings, handsome strangers, and minimalistic celebrations. Sia held her father’s hand, whispering promises.

His grip tightened. “And remember,” he said, “love is like a wedding feast—sometimes grand, sometimes minimalistic, but always nourishing.”

And in that hospital room, Sia wove her own whispers of love.