In a country where death is increasingly structural, choosing each other daily becomes an act of quiet resistance but against systems that treat certain lives as expendable. If our marriage cannot promise forever, it will promise presence—again and again, especially when fear knocks first.

Rumi’s philosophy: to love is already to accept loss; to grieve is to remain faithful to that acceptance:

Marriage, for me, no longer centers on legacy like buying a home or raising children. In the shadow of collapse, it becomes a compact of solidarity.

Can one build a happy marriage when grief has become a quiet undercurrent in our life together?