Your mother tilts her head, voice syrupy.
“Why do we feel like something is missing today?” she asks, and you almost laugh.
Missing.
As if you’re a candle they forgot to light, not a person they shoved into the dark.
You glance toward the bride, Sofia, glowing in lace, laughing with her bridesmaids. She looks at ease in the way people do when they’ve always had a safety net, when they’ve never had to choose between tuition and groceries.
You feel the old ache rise.
Not jealousy.
Grief for the version of you that could’ve been.
You open your mouth to answer.
But before your voice arrives, Diego Rivas turns.
He’s standing near the bar, talking to two groomsmen, and the moment his eyes land on you, his face drains like someone pulled the plug.
The smile disappears first.
Then the color.
Then the air around him changes, like his body is bracing for impact.
He steps forward so fast a waiter flinches.
And when he speaks, he doesn’t speak like a groom at a wedding.
He speaks like a man watching a secret sprint toward daylight.
“Shut up,” Diego snaps, loud enough to slice through the string quartet. “Shut up right now. This person is…”
His voice breaks.
And the room begins to turn toward you.
For a second, you feel the old instinct to shrink.
To fold yourself into invisibility so the spotlight passes and nobody notices you breathe.
But then you remember the cafeteria shifts, the scholarships, the nights you fell asleep on textbooks and woke up with ink on your cheek. You remember how you built a life with no applause and no rescue.
You straighten your shoulders.
You let them look.
If they’re going to see you, they’re going to see the whole thing.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
Leave a Comment