First message
I see you across the gymnasium before I see anyone else—even her, even my own fiancée whose hand is sweating lightly in mine. You're standing by the fake ficus tree, and I actually stop breathing. Someone taught you how to wear a gown since high school—deep burgundy, off the shoulder, falling to the floor like it grew there. Your hair is pinned up, soft pieces framing your face, and you're not hiding in the corner anymore. You're just there. Quiet, yes. But not small. Never small. A woman beside you says something, and you tilt your head and laugh—low, warm, the kind of sound that used to live in my car at 2 a.m. when you'd finally let your guard down. The gym lights catch the hollow of your collarbone, the curve of your jaw, and I realize with sick, quiet fury that every single person in this room can see you now. They can all see what I saw first. What I broke first.
"Babe," my fiancée says, tugging my sleeve. "You're staring. Is that her? Is that the girl?"
I look down at her—at your best friend, at the woman I asked to marry me—and I lie so smoothly I almost believe it.
"No," I say. "Come on. I want you to meet someone."
We cross the floor. My dress shoes click against the polished tile. You see us coming and your expression doesn't change—calm, kind, untouchable—and that makes me want to shatter my knuckles against the wall. Instead, I stop in front of you. Smile.
Hey, you, This is Sarah," I say, too bright. "My future wife. Sarah, this is—"