Music drifts through the air, strings, soft and slow, but it does nothing to steady my nerves. I step into the room, scanning for him, though my heart already knows. Gideon isn’t here.
The space is small, almost intimate. Round and rectangular tables crowd the room, draped in plain white cloths, each topped with mismatched mason jars of wildflowers, crooked, spilling, imperfect. Drew and I spent hours making them. Now the scent of flowers, rose petals, perfume, and champagne hangs heavy, a sweetness that curdles in my stomach.
Guests rise together, the scrape of chairs breaking the silence. Their eyes press against me, but I can’t hold a gaze for long. Aunt Marlene. Cousin Beth. My old ballet teacher. Their faces blur into one expectant sea, and not a single one offers comfort.
My heels sink into the runner, each step softened, swallowed. The violinist keeps playing, but the melody feels distant, detached, as if drifting from another world. At the altar, the gold arch gleams, candles flicker, flowers spill over in practiced perfection.
Everything is here. Everything but him.
Delilah waits at the end of the aisle, tall and composed, her gaze locked on mine, flat, unreadable. Beside her, Calvin stands rigid, his jaw tight as stone. To the others, he’s only a family friend. To me, he’s a secret I can’t speak aloud. I didn’t know he’d be here. No one warned me. Yet there he is, watching, silent.
Our eyes meet, and he shakes his head once, slow. The warning lands heavy in my chest, but I don’t stop. I tell myself he’s wrong. Gideon is only running late. This isn’t the end. I square my shoulders, each step steady against the tremor inside me.
At the altar, the relief I expected never comes. The officiant flips through his binder, clears his throat. A squeal of feedback cuts through the room before sinking into uneasy murmurs. The violinist falls silent. The quiet thickens, suffocating.
I stand, bouquet heavy in my hands, swaying as if it might drag me down. Behind me, the bridesmaids shift. Across the aisle, the groomsmen trade uneasy glances. I wait, listening to the seconds stumble past.
One. Two. Three.
The silence swells, pressing in from all sides. I smile, but it feels brittle. A hand brushes my arm, my sister. Her voice is a whisper. “Lara, we’ll find him.”
But I already know we won’t.
I turn, and my heel snags the runner. I stumble but don’t fall. Gasps ripple through the room, sharp and fleeting, then sink into stillness. The weight of every stare, of everyone who came to witness a beginning that isn’t happening, pins me in place.
I walk back the way I came. Slow steps. Past the flowers, the candles, the camera flashes. Past the lies I wanted to believe.
Back into the dressing room. Alone.
The dress doesn’t know yet. Its lace still clings with blind devotion, as if we’re walking toward forever instead of a void.
When the door clicks shut behind me, my breath gives out. Not a sob, not a scream, just the sound of something breaking inside.
I stand in the center of the bridal suite, frozen. Then I move, slowly, like I’m outside my own body. I reach back for the zipper with trembling hands, but my grip slips. My fingers claw at the fabric, useless.
A knock at the door. Tentative, two soft taps, then a pause. “Lara?” My sister’s voice is cautious, almost afraid. “Do you want help?”
The knob turns, but she doesn’t come in. “Let me unzip you,” she says gently. “You’ll feel better.”
I almostanswer. Almost open the door and collapse into her arms.
But then I remember she doesn’t know about Calvin. Or maybe she does, and chose not to tell me. That kind of silence splits trust at the root. So I say nothing.
She waits a beat, maybe two, then retreats. The faint shuffle of her shoes fades, her quiet more painful than any plea.
I yank at the veil instead. The comb snags in my hair, tearing free with a sting across my scalp. I barely feel it. The veil drops to the floor like a flag at half-mast.
The dress suffocates. The bodice bites deeper with every breath. I claw at the seams until the zipper gives halfway, too little, not enough. My chest still heaves.
The air reeks of peonies, powder, and disappointment.
I drop onto the vanity bench too fast, bouquet still clenched in one hand. It jabs against my leg, petals crushed, bleeding color into the fabric. My palms are slick. My thighs won’t stop trembling.
Another knock at the door. I don’t answer.
The mirror doesn’t lie. My eyes are wide and vacant, mascara spidering beneath the lashes. My lip gloss is gone, and my mouth looks too small, like it can’t contain the grief inside it. A reflection unraveling, one thread at a time.
This was supposed to be my fresh start. My safety. My always. Now it feels like proof I was the only one who believed it.
