I spend my life watching videos of brides dancing with their fathers. The swell of music, slow and sure, while tears of joy make their eyes shine like glass catching the golden hour light. It’s always the same pattern—an embrace, then whispers exchanged, followed by the shared laughter of the crowd.

The world has taught me many things: How to be silent at the dinner table. How to die a million little times. How to flinch before the world could land its first blow.

But never how to dance with someone I love.

Until now, I speak of matrimony with care. Because there’s always a need for love like ours to hide.

They see what we consider sacred as shameful, tender to their truth that refuses to be pruned.

If this is wrong, why does it feel like the greatest truth I’ve ever had?

And yet here I am today, twirling with him in the kitchen as soup boils over and our cat watches on. We’re always off-beat, and I love him for that. We trip over cracked linoleum and laugh as we create poetry out of our clumsiness, using a language no one ever dared to translate.

Four left feet, stepping into a rhythm the world unwilling to make a beat for.

They say weddings are about love. But for us, love has always been something we had to defend—the veil, the vows, and the simple truth that I, too, deserve to waltz.

And as we decided, our marriage will not be a celebration—it will be a rebellion.

No white doves, no family toast, no fathers to dance beneath the glow of fairy lights with. Just me, the man I love, and the weight of chairs that will remain empty out of principle.

But for now, we‘ll continue to tiptoe in dimly lit kitchens until the day comes that our love no longer needs to be hidden.

Even if we misstep, even if no one claps.

Even if the music is only in our heads, we will dance with all four left feet.

- Sean Clifford M. Malinao

(Illustration by Darlyn Antoinette Baybayon/FEU Advocate)