I’d spent years dreaming of my perfect wedding, never imagining my groom would lean in at the altar, whisper “Bye, witch,” and then turn to marry his EX, shattering my world in front of everyone.
When I was ten, I’d sit on the back porch with my sister Rebecca, our legs swinging under the old wooden bench.
The boards were warm from the sun, and when I pressed my palm to them, I could feel the day’s heat sinking into my skin. The air always smelled like lilacs from the bush by the fence.
On quiet afternoons, the scent was so heavy it felt like you could taste it.
We talked about the years ahead as if we could shape them with nothing but words. Like we were writing a map that the world would have to follow.
Rebecca always said she’d have her own clothing line one day.
She pulled out her school notebooks, the math problems half-finished, the corners filled with quick sketches.
Dresses that flowed like river water, shoes with fat satin bows, jackets with silver buttons that caught the sun.
“I’ll have a big house too,” she said, her eyes distant like she could already see it.
She used to laugh after saying that, a short, proud laugh, like the future was already hers. I didn’t care about houses or cars. My dreams were softer, smaller in size, but heavier in feeling.
I dreamed about love.
Pictured meeting the man I was meant for, how his eyes would lock on mine in a way that told me I was the only one.
I imagined how our hands would fit together, fingers weaving like they’d always known the way.
And my wedding…
Oh, that was my favorite dream.
I saw white lights strung across a high ceiling, music so soft it felt like a whisper in the ear. Tables heavy with food, flowers spilling over in every corner.
***
Years moved fast, like water in a stream after the rain.
And finally, there I was. Standing in a wedding dress that Rebecca had made with her own hands.
The silk slid over me when I moved, cool and smooth, catching the light as if it were made for it.
The neckline dipped just enough to be daring without being loud.
Rebecca was on her knees, smoothing the hem. Her fingers were quick and careful, like she was afraid of missing even a single wrinkle.
“Hold still,” she muttered, her brow creased in concentration.
When she stood, her eyes moved over me from head to toe.
Rebecca smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
There was something else there — a shadow that made the air feel heavier.
The question hit me hard, like a stone dropped straight into my chest. I swallowed.
Though, the pause between the words stretched longer than I wanted.
Rebecca studied me a moment longer, but didn’t press.
The music started in the other room.
The doors swung open. My heart thudded in my ears.
There was no turning back at the moment.
The aisle stretched ahead like a river of white petals, each one soft and trembling under the faint movement of the air.
My shoes pressed into them, the sound of my steps muffled, almost swallowed whole.
The scent of roses was thick, almost too sweet, blending with the faint smell of polished wood that reminded me of old church pews and careful hands cleaning for Sunday service.
My heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to climb out of my chest, the sound filling my ears until I could barely hear the music.
Ryan stood at the altar, tall and sure, his suit perfect, his hair neat.
He smiled when I reached him — wide, charming, the kind of smile that made people trust him.
His fingers wrapped around mine, warm, steady, making me want to believe in him the way I always had.
He leaned in, close enough that I could feel the brush of his lips against my ear, whispering…
The words were cold, sharp, and wrong. They slid into me like ice water poured straight down my spine.
I jerked my head back, searching his face for a hint that it was a joke.
But his grin didn’t fade.
If anything, it sharpened.
Before I could speak, the doors at the back slammed open. Heads turned.
A woman stepped inside, her presence filling the room like a storm cloud.
She was tall, her dark hair loose and shining, a white dress hugging her like it had been made for her alone.
The beads and sequins on the fabric caught the light, throwing it back into the faces of the guests.
Ryan’s eyes lit up in a way they had never lit up for me.
He dropped my hand like it was nothing and took a step toward her.
“This,” he said to the room, his voice proud, “is the woman I love. I’ve been tired of pretending.
I’ll marry her right here, right now.”
A wave of shocked gasps rolled through the crowd.
My throat closed up, the edges of my vision blurring.
The priest shook his head firmly.
Ryan didn’t flinch.
“Then tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll have our own ceremony. Me and Lily.”
Chairs scraped back.
Half the guests walked out, some muttering under their breath.
My legs felt weak, like they might fold under me.
I turned to leave, ready to disappear into the cool air outside, when a hand caught mine and held on.
He stepped in front of me, blocking the doorway like he was afraid I might slip away without hearing him. His suit was neatly pressed, but his tie hung a little crooked, as if he’d thrown it on in a rush.
His eyes, the same shade of green as Ryan’s, didn’t have Ryan’s sharpness. They looked tired, heavy, almost bruised with regret.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
