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Silvie
I don’t wantto be here. In fact, I want to run far, far away from this wedding venue right now.
Anywhere but here.
But isn’t a runaway bride a cliché? And what would people say?
Ugh.
My stomach clenches painfully at that thought and sweat beads over my upper lip, no doubt threatening to ruin my makeup.
Another thing to worry about, as if I’m not already unraveling thread by thread.
You can do this, Silvie.
Can I, though?
I have to.
There are over six hundred people expecting me to walk down the aisle in less than an hour. Not to mention the paparazzi parked outside waiting for juicy gossip to report on. And I’m pretty sure my parents would lose their ever-loving minds if I ran out on my own wedding.
Be brave, Silvie.
Do other brides-to-be feel this gut-churning, headache-inducing anxiety that makes you want to run away before it’s too late?
Just hang in there, girl.
But I don’twantto hang in there. I don’t evenwantto be here. I’d rather suffer maddening thirst in a desert, or battle mosquitoes in aswamp...any other form of torture elsewhere is preferable than this one.
Now you’re just being ridiculous.
This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life but I’m a thousand miles from happy. I can’t explain it, but this feels...wrong. I’ve never felt so much dread as I do right now.
Breathe.It has to be nervous jitters.
Or maybe it’s my gut telling me something important…
My heart rate skitters at that thought—at the idea that I might be making a huge mistake. Maybe it’s one of those survival instincts telling me if I stay, I’ll die.
Not to be dramatic or anything, but I kind of feel like I may not make it to the other side of this wedding alive.
I fidget uncomfortably. My dress is heavier than I remember from the fitting. Not physically, but emotionally. It digs into my ribs like it’s trying to suffocate me. Like it was designed by someone who doesn’t believe in bread or carbs in general and wants to torture me.
That’s because it pretty much was.
My mother sent a nutritionist and a chef to me six months ago. If I were to fit into my dress, I had to follow a strict diet. Utter bullshit.
Luckily, I was so busy with work and wedding planning that I had no time to dwell on the fact my almond mom had a less-than-healthy eating plan for me. I simply ate what was provided and kept busy on everything that needed doing.
Perhaps that should have been a red flag.
My stomach grumbles as if to agree.
God, I miss bread. I miss all carbs, actually. I literally dreamed about my cake today. The cake. Not the marriage. That should have been a sign, too.
I’m dragged from my internal meltdown, drawn to the humming of the wedding day chaos all around me. Curling irons clack together and makeup artists work on the wedding party for last-minute touch-ups. The lethal level of hairspray in the air makes it smell like chemical warfare.
