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The problem started seven years ago. Kei still remembered it vividly because it was entirely his fault. They had been sitting together on the couch. It was late June.
Zemu had been curled against his side while pretending to read a biology journal and actually looking at pictures of frogs, while Kei had been reading an article. It was all normal; the evening and the conversation.
Then, Zemu had asked why June weddings were apparently so popular. Because he was an idiot, Kei had answered. Something about traditions, good luck, about the Roman goddess Juno, about June Brides. It was a harmless piece of trivia, or so he thought.
He should have known better, because the moment the words “June Bride” left his mouth, Zemu’s eyes lit up, and whenever Zemu’s eyes lit up, somebody suffered, and it was usually him.
“Keki.”
“I know.” A yawn escaped him.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I absolutely do.”
Zemu paused, and then,
“June Bride privileges.”
Kei had closed his eyes, as there it was. The beginning of the end. Nothing had improved, even three years later.
“Happy anniversary!”
The shout echoed through the apartment. It was six in the morning, and Kei simply wanted to sleep in. He pulled the blanket over his head, truly a futile effort, since the blanket was immediately ripped away.
“Keki!”
He sighed at the sudden intrusion, even though he knew exactly what the ruckus was all about.
“Happy anniversary!”
“It’s six.”
“It’s June 29.”
Silence followed, though he already knew.
“It’s our anniversary.”
“Of course it is.” he had set a façade of disappointment. Although, Zemu wanted to play along. She gasped, as if offended deeply and personally.
“You’re being really unsupportive of my national holiday.”
“This isn’t a holiday.”
“It is in this household.”
Kei opened one eye. His wife was standing beside the bed. Already dressed, awake, and even smiling, which was dangerous. Absolutely dangerous. There was a flower crown on her head. A flower crown at six in the morning.
“What is that?”
“My June Bride crown.”
“It suits you, kind of.”
“What do you mean kind of?”
“I question this.”
“You can’t question culture.”
“This isn’t culture.”
“It is in my heart.”
Kei snickered as she laughed.
The worst part was that she looked genuinely happy, as if today was Christmas, or her birthday, or even the day somebody announced a free strawberry shortcake for life.
The apartment became progressively more ridiculous as the day continued. By eight o’clock, there were flowers, by nine, there was a banner, by ten, Zemu had somehow produced matching anniversary mugs. By noon, she had declared herself the official representative of June Brides worldwide.
Kei didn’t know where she got the confidence, nor the props or the banner. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.
“Keki.”
“What is it?” It did not sound like a question.
“You haven’t complimented my crown.”
“Well.. I—”
She cut him off.
“You haven’t complimented my dress.”
“Maybe it’s because—.”
The words were finally making it. It was almost there. He wanted to compliment the girl beneath all the ornamentations above everything else.
“You haven’t complimented me.” she groaned.
“I married you.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I signed legal documents.”
“Still not enough.”
Kei stared, while Zemu stared back.
She was all smug, victorious, eternally insufferable, and above all, his wife. Unfortunately so.
Marriage had not changed her and that was the problem, or maybe it was not. Sometimes, Kei was still unsure. He had thought dating would uplift her even further, and ultimately, it had. He had thought engagement would somehow push her even further, to pursue not only him, but herself as well, and of course it had.
He had thought marriage would definitely settle the pressure she puts upon herself, yet it somehow made things worse, because she now had legal rights. Even so, she knew it all too well, that legality is not a barrier for those desperate enough. That insecurity crawled deep into every crevice of her mind.
“Kei.”
“What?”
“I’m courting you.”
Kei stared in confusion and curiosity, trying to hide behind disbelief.
“…What?”
“I’m courting you.”
“We have been married.”
“Okay?”
“Why are you still courting me?”
Zemu blinked, like he’d asked why people breathed oxygen.
“Because I like you.”
“You’re my wife.”
“Correct.”
“So you already succeeded.”
“So?”
Kei stared genuinely, as somehow, she looked actually confused, as though she could not understand his logic.
“I won,” she explained patiently.
“Yes.”
“But I still want to keep winning.”
“…”
“Kei, if I stop courting you, somebody else might steal you.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nobody.”
“You never know.”
“Zemu.”
“What if some pretty woman tries talking to you?”
“We’re married.”
“What if she doesn’t care?”
Kei slowly rubbed his face. It was careful, like a man enduring hardship. His wife was jealous of hypothetical women again.
The thing was—Zemu really did keep courting him, even after all these years. First, there were bentos, then, little notes, after that, playlists. It all led to random gifts, sticky notes hidden inside books, text messages sent during work hours, all of the songs she had sang for him, and even photographs she took when she thought he wasn’t looking. (He always noticed.)
It never stopped, not a week or even once. Kei would come home and find a note on the fridge.
GOOD JOB AT EXISTING TODAY.
Or:
I SAW A FROG AND THOUGHT OF YOU.
Or:
YOU LOOKED HANDSOME THIS MORNING BTW.
She was relentless. Absolutely relentless. Loving him was a full-time occupation for Zemu.
By afternoon, they were walking through town. The weather was windy and comfortable; the kind of day Zemu called romantic. Of course, it meant trouble. She was holding his arm as if it were instinct. Possessive instinct, at that. She was afraid somebody would steal him, even when no one wanted to steal him. He was not even particularly friendly.
“Keki.”
“Yes..?”
“Do you remember our wedding?”
“Unfortunately.” he sighed as he teased, then a small smirk followed.
“I cried.”
“You always cry.”
“I was emotional.”
“You dropped the cake.”
“That was unrelated.”
“It was entirely related.”
Zemu pouted, then Kei looked away, mostly because he was smiling just a little. Though, it was enough that she noticed immediately. Of course she did, as she always noticed.
“You’re smiling.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“No.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Yay!”
They ended up at Straw-bebi, which was the original crime scene. The birthplace of all his dearly beloved problems. Like routine—they bought a whole strawberry shortcake again. Some traditions never died.
The cake sat between them—it was perfectly covered in strawberries. Zemu looked at it with the same expression people reserved for religious revelations. Kei watched her quietly. He noticed that the years had changed her a little.
The edges were softer now, as impulsiveness had become steadier. The anxiety she hid so carefully was easier for him to spot, such as her tiredness, moments she retreated to recharge, nights she could not sleep, and days she pushed herself too hard. He knew all of it, it was ingrained in his memory.
Somehow, she was still looking at strawberry shortcake like she’d discovered happiness for the first time. It was cute, which had made him blush, and all the more grateful. He subconsciously knew that she was forever when he first saw that face, during the day when he gave her the cake and his heart as a whole. Eternity is what he strives for with her, despite their mishaps. Their road may have been rugged, yet it makes it all the more beautiful.
“Kei.”
“Hm?”
“Do you love me?”
The question caught him off guard, though not because it was unusual. Zemu asked all the time, mostly due to the fact that she enjoyed making him suffer.
Still, there was something softer about it today. Perhaps because of the anniversary, she looked so happy. Perhaps she was looking at him like he was the answer to something.
Kei looked down at his fork, at the cake, and then especially at her.
“Yeah.”
The answer came easier than it used to. Years ago it would’ve gotten stuck, or he would’ve looked away, and his signature—hiding behind sarcasm. Now it was just true.
“Yeah.”
Zemu’s smile immediately brightened, dangerously so. It was sunrise and fireworks. Somehow—after all these years—Kei still didn’t understand how someone could look that happy over him.
“See?” she said.
“See what?”
“You do love me.”
“…”
“Which means my courting strategy is working.”
“We’re married.”
“I’m playing the long game.”
Kei actually laughed. It was a small and brief sound, but all the more real.
Zemu froze and grinned. Then, she pointed immediately, and slyly accused,
“You laughed.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
Kei looked away. His ears felt warm, it was quite annoying, and his wife looked delighted, which was worse.
That evening they returned home. The flowers, the banner, the ridiculous flower crown—it all remained. Zemu was sitting beside him on the couch, curled against his side, comfortable and familiar. Outside, the sky had darkened, while the inside was full of light and serenity.
Quietness for once. It was a rare miracle, until,
“Kei.”
He sighed.
“What.” At this point, it was not a question.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“Maybe.”
“Zemu.”
She grinned, then shifted closer, even though there was nowhere left to go, her head found his shoulder. It was as natural as breathing, and as coming home.
“Happy anniversary.”
The words were softer this time, not loud, not dramatic, nor teasing; it was simply sincere.
Kei looked down at her messy hair, glasses, the flower crown she’d somehow worn all day, and at his ridiculous wife, utmost. His June Bride, his ultimate favorite person. The person who still courted him after years of being together. She still gave him notes, still made playlists, still looked at him like he’d hung the moon.
The person who chose him, over and over again. His hand found hers, it was warm and small, and the most familiar. He squeezed gently.
“Happy anniversary.”
Zemu smiled softly, and with assertion. Then, she tilted her head up with her eyes bright.
“Does this mean I get June Bride privileges?”
Kei immediately giggled at everything.
“…What privileges?”
Her grin widened.
“Oh, I’ve prepared a list.”
“Of course you have.”
“Thirty-seven pages.”
“Thirty-seven?!”
“Thirty-eight actually. I revised it.”
Kei closed his eyes. Somewhere deep inside, he knew this was his fate and the consequence of his interest, not for stealing that strawberry shortcake all those years ago. Rather, for falling in love with the girl who chased him afterwards. He accepted all that followed and all of the storms throughout their journey. The girl who decided she was going to make him love her. The girl who never stopped, even when in dating or marriage, and especially not now.
As Zemu started enthusiastically explaining Clause Twelve of June Bride Privileges while holding his hand—Kei found he didn’t really mind. Not anymore.