I clap too. Smile too. But my hands sting with it, my cheeks ache. Because behind my applause is the scream I can’t let out—don’t get used to it. Don’t hold too tight. Don’t believe in forever when you’ve seen how fast it can end.
She’s glowing, she’s radiant, she’s everything I should be proud of.
And I am. God, I am.
But my eyes slip again.
And there he is.
Dax hasn’t clapped once. Not for the vows, not for the kiss. His hands stay still on his thighs, his gaze locked only on me.
The church is loud but I hear him anyway. The echo of his voice the night he said he loved me, like shrapnel in my veins. Like he meant it. Like it was a truth he’d been drowning under for years.
My throat tightens. My bouquet trembles in my hands.
I tell myself: don’t. Not here. Not in front of Lola, not in front of God, not in front of a hundred people waiting for me to smile in the photos.
But I can’t stop.
My head turns. Just slightly. Just enough.
And his mouth curves. Not a smile. Not anything soft. A scarred thing, dark and dangerous, like he knows he’s pulling me apart in a room full of holy vows and white lace.
The priest’s words blur. My pulse drowns them out. I don’t hear the blessings. I don’t hear the prayer.
All I hear is my own heart stuttering when Dax tilts his head and mouths one word across the church.
Butterfly.
My knees almost give.
The woman beside me thinks I’m crying happy tears. She hands me a tissue. I take it with shaking fingers, press it to my eyes, and pray no one sees the truth bleeding out of me.
Because this isn’t about vows or forever.
This isn’t about Lola and the ring she just promised to wear until death.
This is about me and the man watching me like he’s already planned mine.
The vows are over. The kiss is done. And everyone’s on their feet, clapping like love is a miracle and not a gamble you can lose in a heartbeat.
I clap too, because that’s what you do when your best friend gets married. My palms sting with it, though. Too loud, too hollow, too fake.
Lola’s glowing. She looks like she’s walking on air, like four months apart was nothing compared to a lifetime together. I should be crying for her, happy tears, proud tears. But mine are caught in my throat, jagged, stuck.
Because I feel him.
Dax.
Even across the room, I feel the weight of his stare like a bruise pressing deeper. I don’t have to look to know his eyes aren’t on Lola or the dress or the kiss that sealed it. They’re on me. Always on me.
I tell myself don’t. Don’t look. Don’t give him the satisfaction but I do and he’s there. Slouched in the back like he owns the shadows, jaw tight, eyes darker than the suit he’s wearing. Everyone else is clapping, laughing, leaning into their partners, and he’s just still. Watching me like I’m the only reason he even showed up.
My bouquet shakes in my hand.
Because I know what he’s thinking. I know what that almost-smile means. I know what he’s reminding me of.
The bridge. His mouth. His voice when he said he loved me like it was a confession dragged out of his bones.
