The streets were still asleep when we met — not silent, never that, but softened. Yellow cabs whispered by. A deli rolled up its gate. Somewhere, deep down in the subway, a train exhaled. It was too early for tourists, too late for last night’s dreamers. Just us, standing on a corner in Manhattan, grinning like we had a secret.
And we did.
Their wedding had already happened. The big celebration in Germany, the flowers, the speeches, the family tears. This — this was something else. This was the dream they once called impossible, the one they said out loud with a laugh and a shrug: “We love New York... but that could never happen.”
But it did.
And somehow, that morning, it felt like the city knew.
We walked without a map. Let the skyline pull us forward, let memory and instinct take the lead. They held hands. They kissed in doorways. They danced for no one on a cobbled street in the West Village.
We didn’t need a script. Not when New York was writing it for us in real time — in soft golden light bouncing off glass, in strangers who smiled as they passed, in the way everything ordinary suddenly felt cinematic.
It wasn’t about the dress. Or the flowers. Or even the vows (though there were whispers of them, in between laughter). It was about the feeling. Of belonging to something big, wild, and alive. Of saying yes not just to each other, but to a life that makes space for wonder.
Some stories begin with plans. Ours began with a why not. And ended with two souls, wrapped in the hum of a city that has always, always believed in impossible love.
