The room went still.
The bride sat before him — unveiled at last. But the face he saw was nothing like the one he had pictured over months of imagining. Not the gentle features he hoped for, not the face he attached his affection to.

Her skin looked too smooth, almost glossy. Her features — unnervingly perfect. And the eyes — wide, almost artificial. She resembled a reconstructed image more than a living person.

Someone in the audience whispered:
— Is that a mask?

It wasn’t.

She touched her cheek and pressed lightly. There was a soft click — like a magnet releasing — and a thin silicone layer came off. Beneath it was a different face: uneven, marked, and real — shaped by scars that told a story.

The groom’s voice was quiet:
— You’ve been hiding this from me?

Tears gathered in her eyes:
— I wasn’t hiding to deceive you… I was hiding because I couldn’t face myself. After the fire… the surgeries… the scars… I didn’t believe anyone could look at me with love. I was terrified of the moment you would see me and feel repulsed.

He looked at her — not with anger — with a deep, weary sadness.

She continued softly:
— You said you loved me for who I am inside. I desperately wanted that to be true. But I didn’t dare risk losing you before I had even been loved once in my real skin.

The guests murmured — compassion mixed with disbelief.

Then the groom spoke again. Calmly, almost gently:
— I would have accepted the truth. I would have accepted your pain. But you never gave me the chance. You chose fear over trust. I can’t build a marriage on something that started with a wall between us.

She covered her face with both hands, shoulders shaking.

A woman near the aisle whispered:
— The poor thing…

But another guest, older and steadier, shook her head:
— The tragedy isn’t the scars. It’s that she didn’t believe she was worthy of honest love.

The groom took a breath:
— I’m sorry, but I can’t stay and pretend this was honest from the beginning.

He turned and walked out. No drama, no anger — just the quiet decision of someone who had hoped for openness and found secrecy instead.

The bride stayed kneeling, her gown spread around her like fallen snow. Her parents tried to comfort her, but she only whispered:

“I just wanted to be beautiful… just once…”

The guests left slowly, subdued, thoughtful.

And the truth of it lingered:
love cannot survive in the dark.

He chose honesty, even though it hurt.
She chose protection, even though it cost her everything.

And perhaps — if she had shown her real face sooner — things might have been different. Maybe he truly did love her soul. But a soul hidden behind disguises eventually becomes unreachable.

The quiet lesson of that day was simple and painful:
love demands sincerity — and sincerity demands bravery.