I’m stung, tired, fed up, a little drunk, and entirely unsure how I ended up watching someone else’s happy ending play out while mine feels permanently stuck on the loading screen.
I press my lips together, arms crossed, trying not to let it show.
Because what if I never get this?
What if love, security, someone choosing me, what if that just isn’t in the cards?
Lily laughs at something Ben whispers, the crowd sighs in collective adoration.
And just when I think I might lose it completely, a hand slips into mine.
Steady. Certain.
I look up and it’s Tyler.
No smirk. No clever line. He doesn’t ask. He just holds my hand and gently leads me onto the floor.
And for reasons I can’t name, I let him. Even with my heart full of doubt. Even knowing where this could lead. I follow anyway.
The dance is the kind that lives in muscle memory from school discos. A little unsure, pretending you know what you’re doing. His hands rest carefully on my waist. Mine settle around his neck. The silence stretches, but it isn’t awkward.
It’s… quiet. In the right way.
For a few stolen minutes, it’s just us.
No Lily. No Helen. No hedges or history or wedding drama or mascara threatening mutiny. Just Tyler. And me. And the sweep of strings.
When the song ends, his hand doesn’t drop straight away. And mine doesn’t pull back.
Not until we have to.
He looks down at me, eyes searching. I don’t know what he’s looking for, reassurance, an opening, a sign that I’m still here.
Still willing.
Still his, somehow.
And I want to be. God, I want to be. But Helen’s jabs coil in my head, tightening their grip.
Not really his type.
It stings. Even when I know it shouldn’t. Even when I know I’m more than that.
Tyler brushes a curl from my cheek and my breath catches. For a heartbeat, everything hushes, the music, the crowd, even the ache Helen left behind. It’s just him, just this, and it feels terrifyingly easy to fall into.
Then he says low against my ear, “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod. Because if I stay another second, I’ll drown in everything I’m pretending not to feel.
And maybe I shouldn’t follow him. Maybe I should say goodnight and retreat to my normal life, woolly socks, bad TV reruns, leftover pasta eaten straight from the pan, and the half-broken armour I keep duct-taping back together.
But I don’t.
Because despite every alarm bell in my chest, I want to know what happens next.
Even if it wrecks me. Even if it’s temporary. Even if I’m wrong.
I take his hand.
