Alex and I haven't met or spoken since that night, and honestly, I'm not sure if I want to see him. But who am I kidding? He's literally my fiancé. The whole situation feels like a bad dream I can't wake up from. Every time I close my eyes, I replay the events over and over, trying to make sense of how we got here. How did something that was supposed to be so right go so terribly wrong?
I tried to push those thoughts out of my mind as I went through my morning routine. I dragged myself out of bed, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor sent a shiver up my spine as I stepped in for a shower. The water was hot, almost scalding, but I welcomed the sting, hoping it would wash away the anxiety clinging to my skin. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that everything was falling apart.
After what felt like an eternity in the shower, I finally got out and wrapped myself in a towel, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I looked the same, but everything felt different. The girl staring back at me had bags under her eyes, her usual spark dimmed by the weight of the decisions that lay ahead. I brushed my teeth mechanically, trying to shake off the creeping dread that had settled in the pit of my stomach.
Once I was dressed, I headed downstairs, the smell of pancakes wafting through the air. Normally, the scent of pancakes would lift my spirits, reminding me of Saturday mornings from my childhood when everything seemed simpler, more carefree. My mom would make a huge stack of pancakes, and my sister, Mira, and I would compete to see who could eat the most. But today, even that familiar, comforting smell couldn't shake the heaviness in my heart.
I walked into the kitchen, my mom bustling around, flipping pancakes on the griddle. We had spoken since that night, but our conversations were stilted, lacking the warmth they once had. The closeness we shared felt strained, like an old sweater that had been stretched too thin. I missed the easy way we used to talk, the way she could read my moods without me saying a word. Now, it felt like there was a wall between us, built from the rubble of the decisions I was being forced to make.
I sat down at the breakfast table, my eyes on the plate of pancakes in front of me. I didn't bother with the niceties; I was too emotionally drained to care about appearances. I just needed the comfort that food could bring, something to fill the gnawing emptiness inside. I cut into the pancakes and started eating, each bite mechanical, as if I was on autopilot. The warmth of the syrup, the softness of the pancakes—it should have been comforting, but it wasn't. I could barely taste the food; it was just something to do, a way to keep myself occupied.
Halfway through my meal, my father cleared his throat. That sound, so familiar and yet so loaded with meaning, made me freeze. In our family, a throat-clearing at the table was not just a reflex; it was a signal that he had something important to say. I knew whatever was coming would change the course of my day, maybe even my life, but I wasn't prepared for the words that followed.
"Ava," he began, his tone measured and authoritative, as if he had rehearsed this in his head before saying it out loud, "you won't be going wedding gown shopping." His words hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless. For a moment, I just sat there, fork suspended in mid-air, trying to process what he had just said. Wedding gown shopping was supposed to be a rite of passage, a special moment for the bride, a memory to cherish for years to come. How could he take that away from me?
"What?" I exclaimed, the word escaping my lips before I could stop it. I stood up so quickly that my chair screeched against the floor, the sound harsh in the otherwise quiet kitchen. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My father's decision felt like a betrayal, like he was stripping away one of the few things I was actually looking forward to, even amidst the chaos.
My father stood up as well, his figure towering over me, making me feel small and powerless. "Sit down now," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument. The authority in his tone left no room for rebellion, no space for me to fight back. Reluctantly, I sat back down, but my heart was pounding in my chest, a mix of anger and fear bubbling up inside me. How could he do this to me? How could he make this decision without even consulting me?
"In Alex's tradition, the groom buys the gown, not the bride," he said sternly, as if this was a perfectly reasonable thing to accept, as if it didn't matter that this was *my* wedding, *my* special day. His words felt like a chain, binding me to a tradition that wasn't mine, to a life I wasn't sure I wanted. I could feel my frustration rising, threatening to spill over like a dam about to break.
"Dad, are you serious right now?" I asked, my voice shaking with disbelief and anger. This was supposed to be my moment, my chance to choose something that represented who I was, who I wanted to be as a bride. But instead, I felt like a pawn in a game where the rules were made by everyone else. Without waiting for a response, I pushed my chair back and stood up again, the force of my movement making the dishes on the table rattle. My appetite was completely gone, replaced by a searing sense of injustice.
I stormed out of the dining room, the walls of the house closing in on me as I made my way to the backyard. The air outside was cool, but it did little to soothe the fire burning inside me. I felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of everyone else's expectations. It wasn't just about the wedding gown; it was about my voice, my choices being stifled at every turn. I needed space, I needed to breathe, but even the garden, usually a place of peace and solace, felt oppressive today.
I found a bench under the old oak tree and sat down, burying my face in my hands. My thoughts were a jumbled mess, a storm of emotions that I couldn't control. My relationship with Alex was already on shaky ground, and now it felt like the very foundations of my life were crumbling. My family's expectations, the wedding plans, the future that seemed so certain just a few months ago—it was all spiraling out of control. A tear escaped, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it. I hastily wiped it away, angry at myself for crying, for feeling so helpless.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I should be excited about my wedding, about the life I was about to start with Alex. But all I felt was dread, a deep, overwhelming sense of loss for the dreams I was being forced to abandon. I sat there for what felt like hours, lost in my thoughts, the world around me fading into the background.
I was so absorbed in my own turmoil that I didn't hear the footsteps approaching until they were right beside me. I looked up, startled, to see my sister, Mira, walking towards me. Her usual carefree demeanor was replaced with a look of concern, her brow furrowed as she took in my tear-streaked face. Mira had always been the strong one, the one who could handle anything life threw at her with a smile and a joke. Seeing her serious like this only made my heart ache more.
She sat down beside me on the bench, not saying a word. Instead, she reached out and started gently stroking my hair, a gesture she knew always calmed me when we were kids. The familiarity of it brought a fresh wave of tears to my eyes, but this time I didn't bother wiping them away. I just let them fall, the dam breaking under the pressure of everything I had been holding in.
"I can't even pick my dress," I finally said, my voice cracking with emotion. The words came out thick, choked by the lump in my throat. It seemed so unfair, so cruel, that even this small piece of happiness was being taken from me. Tears welled up again, blurring my vision, but I didn't care. I was tired of holding it all in, tired of pretending I was okay when I wasn't.
Mira didn't say anything at first; she just kept stroking my hair, her presence a silent comfort. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but filled with conviction. "You'll be fine, Av," she said, using the nickname she had given me when we were little. "You're you, my strong, confident sister. Don't let anyone pull you down, not Dad, not this damn marriage, not Alex."
Her words, simple as they were, hit me like a lifeline thrown to someone drowning. I turned to her, burying my face in her shoulder, and hugged her tightly. "Thank you, Mira," I whispered, my voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt. "I needed to hear that."
She hugged me back just as tightly, her arms around me a protective barrier against the world. "Anytime, Ava," she said, her voice filled with a warmth that I had missed so much. "You're not alone in this. We'll figure it out together."
For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope. I wasn't alone. I had Mira, and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to get.