Breathless
"Sister Amy? Still there?" Lia’s voice pierced my haze, dragging me back. "…Yes," I squeezed out, throat parched, voice rusty. "Congratulations." It drained me. "The place… sounds lovely." Like a bad actor. "Yes! We’re thrilled! Oh, Sister Amy…" She circled back eagerly. "The bridesmaid thing… decided yet? I truly, deeply hope you’ll come!
With you there, my wedding’s perfect!" Still inviting me. To stand beside her, smiling as she built her happiness on my foundations, my blueprints, my man. Absurdity strangled me. "I…" I had to end this or shatter. "Need time… to think." My voice quivered. "Later… I’ll reply." "Okay! No rush! Thank you!" Oblivious to my crumbling world, I hung up mid-sentence. The phone slipped from my damp grip, thudding onto the sofa.
Walking Dead
Outside, sunlight glared; traffic roared. Life marched on. Only my collapse was silent. No tears. No screams. Each step floated like cotton. My phone buzzed—another Lia message: a photo of Mark. Mark in casual wear, seated at a dessert shop, a strawberry cake before him. He tilted his head, offering that familiar gentle smile to the lens—a blurred Lia likely taking the selfie. Her voice note followed: "Sister Amy! See? He took me dress shopping—exhausted him!
Offered dessert! Usually hates sweets! Sneaky grin emoji." Hah. He disliked sweets. With me, he feared weight gain, unhealthiness; sampled my cakes sparingly. Not dislike—just not with me. Dress shopping tired him enough to bend rules. His smile looked natural—just as with me. His acting chilled me. Zooming in, I searched his eyes for deceit. Found none—only ease and contentment. With me, he "acted." With Lia, he could "tire," "bend," be his true self? Or were both fragments—neither his whole? My stomach twisted. I closed the image. Didn’t reply. Headed home.
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