The wedding planning becomes something surreal. Like I’m watching someone else live it. Olive chats next to me about color palettes and signature mocktails while I nod and take notes I don’t remember writing.
People compliment me on how helpful I am. How calm.
If they knew how many times I’ve sat in my parked car outside the venue, digging my nails hard enough to leave crescent-shaped bruises on my palms just to keep from screaming, they might think otherwise. But no one asks. No one really looks. And I’ve gotten good at pretending I’m fine.
It all comes to a head at Olive’s dress fitting.
She stands on the pedestal, glowing in white. Lace trailing down her back. Her hands flutter over the bodice, and she looks at me in the mirror with stars in her eyes.
“What do you think?”
My throat closes.
“You look…” I try to smile. “Perfect.”
She beams. And something in me shatters quietly. Because it should’ve been enough to love someone. It should’ve meant something to feel this deeply. But all it got me was bruises on my soul and silence from the only man I ever let close enough to break me.
I excuse myself moments later.
Bathroom, I say. Smile intact.
But once the door shuts behind me, I slide down the wall, dress fabric swishing under my hands, breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
I press my fist to my mouth to keep the sob in but it’s too late.
It claws its way out of me anyway.
Because I’m tired.
So tired of being the girl who holds it together while quietly unraveling behind closed doors.
I sob into the sterile silence of the bridal shop bathroom, crouched on the tile in my dress, mascara smudging down my cheeks while everyone outside laughs and drinks champagne and celebrates a love story that doesn’t belong to me.
And for the first time, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend to survive.
Days pass, then weeks.
I stop expecting to feel better. I move through life even though it’s muted. I keep my head down. Do my work. Show up when I’m supposed to.
But something in me has gone quiet.
And I don’t know how to turn it back on.
Early one morning the call comes.
It’s Charlie
“Olive’s in labor,” she says, voice breathless and thick with awe. “It’s happening. The twins are coming.”
We always joked about how Liam would faint. How Charlie and I would be the ones keeping Olive calm.
Now I can barely feel my own hands as I grab my keys and head out the door.
At the hospital I sit with Olive’s mother, watching the door, waiting for news. Sam, Charlie, and Sam Jr come and then go. Hours stretch and bend. I feel like a prop in someone else’s story.
Eventually, the babies are born. Two girls. Tiny, red-faced miracles wrapped in soft hospital blankets. I hold it together long enough to hand Olive a bottle of water. To squeeze Liam’s shoulder. To smile at the twins like I’m whole enough to mean it.
Then I step into the hallway.
