I used to think wedding dresses were stitched with promises.
But most of them? They're stitched with secrets.
Amara's hands worked fast, pulling the needle through the lace like she was sewing straight through her own thoughts.
The shop was silent except for the soft scrape of her chair against the old wooden floor.
Her mother's sewing shop always felt too quiet now, like the walls had grown tired of waiting for the sound of her mother's voice.
Even after all these years, the scent still hung in the air—faint perfume, fabric glue, and the dusty comfort of old cloth. Sometimes Amara wondered if she kept working in this shop just to keep that smell from fading.
Her mother used to say wedding dresses were stitched with love.
But Amara had seen too much.
She'd sewn for brides who never picked up their dresses. Fixed tears in the lace from angry hands, not accidents. Packed up dresses that were no longer needed because sometimes, love changes its mind.
She no longer believed in happily ever after.
She only believed in stitches.
The bell above the door chimed.
She didn't look up at first. Probably another rushed order or someone complaining about a hemline that wasn't perfect.
People always wanted perfect.
"Hi," a voice said, quiet, like he wasn't sure if he was even supposed to be there.
Amara glanced up slowly.
A boy stood in the doorway—not holding fabric, not carrying measurements, not holding anything at all. Just his own nervous silence.
He wasn't dressed like most grooms-to-be. His shoes were dusty. His shirt was wrinkled.
His face full with confusion, like he was till trying to decide if he was making the right choice.
But one thing she has learnt in her years of sewing mostly broken wedding dresses, was that we are never ever sure of the decisions you make.
And something about his eyes… they looked like he'd been carrying too much for too long.
"I heard you make wedding dresses," he said.
She leaned back in her chair, not bothering to hide her tired curiosity. "Brides usually come themselves. What changed?"
"She's… busy," he said, but his voice dipped when he said it, like maybe it wasn't the full story.
Busy. Sure. Amara had heard that before. People always had reasons when they didn't want to show up.
But she didn't ask. She never asked. People told themselves whatever version of the story they could live with. It wasn't her job to dig into it.
"I'll make the dress," she said, finally setting the lace aside and brushing loose threads from her lap. Her eyes met his, steady, almost challenging.
"But making the story happy?
That's up to you. I just make the dress. You know, I'm kind of famous for making broken wedding dresses."
He blinked, surprised by her honesty, then gave a soft laugh—the kind that sounded like it hadn't been used in a while.
"That's fine," he said. "We're not really chasing a happy story."
Something about the way he said it made her hesitate. Like he meant it. Like he already knew how this was going to end.
Buy it wasn't her fight neither should she be concerned.
They talked a little more about the design—what Zara might like, the kind of fabric, the style—but the boy never offered much detail. He just said, "Simple. She likes simple things."
When they finished, he headed toward the door, his steps slow, like he wasn't in a rush to leave but didn't know how to stay either.
Right before he reached the door, Amara surprised herself.
"I hope this one ends happily," she said, her voice lower, more honest than she'd planned.
He paused, glanced back, and gave her a small, almost broken smile. "Me too."
Then he walked out, leaving the shop—and Amara—quiet again.
She sat back down and picked up her needle, but something in her chest wouldn't settle.
Maybe I don't sew happy endings, she thought. But maybe, this time, I'm sewing something else.
Hope...