The Wedding Invitation

First-Person POV:

Katya’s perfectly curated, luxurious apartment has always been the absolute most comfortable place in the entire world to feel like complete and utter shit.

When I first moved in here, bringing my shattered heart and my suitcases full of useless memories, I immediately realized two things. First, Katya was just as high-maintenance as she had been back when we were in college together. Every single square inch of her place screamed extravagant wealth and flawless taste. From the high-end velvet furniture that looked too intimidating to actually sit on, to the avant-garde designer décor that made you wonder if a real human being actually lived here or if it was just an architectural digest showroom. I was genuinely happy for her, happy that she had landed the kind of cutthroat corporate job that allowed her to maintain this untouchable lifestyle.

But the second realization was much more important to my current state of being. Despite the icy perfection of the decor, this place was my sanctuary. Even though she had painstakingly decorated a beautiful, serene guest room specifically for me, I spent the vast majority of my absolute worst nights curled up right out here in the living room.

Currently, I am tightly wrapped up in an obscenely overpriced, cashmere throw blanket on her pristine, cream-colored couch, utterly paralyzed as I stare intensely at the sudden notification lighting up the screen of my phone.

The digital attachment. The formal, elegant design. The absolute destruction of my newly found, barely-there peace.

Before I can even bring myself to process the words glaring up at me, a massive, suffocating wave of dread washes over me. My blood turns to freezing ice in my veins. My breath catches completely in the back of my throat. I force myself up, my limbs trembling so violently I feel like I might collapse right back down into the cushions. I drag the heavy, expensive blanket with me, trailing it across the polished hardwood floor, and march straight into the sleek, modern kitchen.

I know exactly what I need to do right now. There is only one possible coping mechanism for this specific brand of trauma.

I ruthlessly yank open the custom cabinetry and grab a bottle of Katya's exceptionally expensive red wine. I don't even bother looking at the vintage or the brand. I just need alcohol, and I need it right this second. I snatch a corkscrew from the drawer, my hands shaking so badly that it takes me three pathetic tries to actually get the metal spiral into the cork. I uncork it with a loud, echoing pop that bounces off the marble countertops. I bypass a wine glass entirely. I don't have the time or the dignity for glassware. I bring the heavy glass rim to my lips and take a massive, desperate gulp directly from the bottle. The dark liquid burns a fiery trail down my throat, but I welcome the sting. I take another huge swallow, chasing the initial burn, before I finally dare to look back at the glowing screen of my phone.

For months, I have been silently, desperately praying for him to reach out to me. Every time my phone vibrated in my pocket, my treacherous heart would skip a beat, hoping it was him. Every single night, as I stared up at the ceiling of Katya’s guest room, I played out a million different scenarios in my pathetic head. I imagined him sending a lengthy paragraph of apologies. I imagined a late-night, drunken text begging for forgiveness. I imagined him showing up at the bakery, looking wrecked and exhausted, telling me he made the biggest mistake of his life. I just wanted closure. Or maybe, secretly, I just wanted him back.

But now, in this very moment, this message from him is the absolute last thing I need.

I tell myself to calm down. I literally whisper the words aloud to the empty kitchen. *Calm down, Adelina. It’s probably just a mistake. It’s probably a mass email. It’s not like one stupid message can destroy the progress you’ve made.*

But my hands won't stop shaking.

A vicious, sickening twist forms in the pit of my stomach as my blurry, tear-filled eyes focus on the top of the screen. I am instantly hit with the humiliating, gut-wrenching realization that I never actually bothered to change his contact name in my phone. After all the crying, after all the moving out, after all the agonizing attempts to rebuild my shattered self-esteem, I left his name exactly the same.

It still glaringly reads: *Babe*.

*Babe.*

The word mocks me. It screams at me from the bright pixels, a glowing monument to my own pathetic inability to let go. My heart pounds a frantic, chaotic rhythm against my ribs, echoing loudly in my ears as my eyes scan the incoming messages and the attached digital invitation. The elegant, cursive font blurs and refocuses as my brain desperately tries to reject the information it is receiving.

Brooks is getting MARRIED?!

I blink. I blink again, rubbing my eyes violently with the back of my hand, smudging powdered sugar from the bakery all over my face. I read the words again.

Brooks Sinclair is getting married.

The sheer absurdity of the statement echoes in my mind like a gunshot. It doesn't make sense. It’s mathematically impossible. We have only been broken up for seven months. Seven short, agonizing months where I have barely been able to drag myself out of bed and bake croissants, and he has somehow found the love of his life and locked it down?

I throw back the bottle of red wine again, gulping it down greedily, tilting my head back until the edges of my vision start to physically blur. A dizzying, warm haze finally begins to settle over my panicked mind, but it’s not enough to numb the sheer audacity of what I am reading.

Not only is he getting married, but he is also hosting an extravagant, month-long, couples-only cruise right before the wedding?

I lower the bottle, panting slightly as I stare at the screen in pure, unfiltered horror. A month-long cruise. Couples only. A celebration of their perfect, magical love story before they even walk down the aisle. The absolute audacity of it sends a massive shockwave through my entire nervous system. Of all the ways and reasons I had imagined Brooks reaching out to me, this was never, ever one of them. Sending your ex-girlfriend of a decade an invitation to your extravagant wedding and your nauseating couples-only love cruise? It’s not just cruel. It’s psychotic.

I take another enormous gulp of the expensive wine. The bottle is already half empty. The alcohol is hitting my empty stomach fast and hard, wrapping my brain in a fuzzy, disorienting blanket, but it does absolutely nothing to stop the dam from breaking.

The hot, stinging tears finally come. They spill over my lower lashes, streaming down my cheeks in thick, uncontrollable rivers. A sob rips out of my throat, loud and ugly, echoing in the quiet luxury of the apartment.

My mind immediately spirals, completely out of my control, diving headfirst into the agonizing, bottomless abyss of our shared past.

Ten years.

We were together for a whole, solid decade. Ten years of my life, handed over to him on a silver platter. I gave him my youth, my patience, my endless support, and my entire heart. We started dating when we were merely fourteen years old. We were just innocent kids, sharing awkward kisses under the football bleachers, sneaking out of our bedroom windows just to hold hands in the park at midnight. We grew up together. We shaped each other.

Every single adult around us back then said it wouldn’t last. They looked at us with those condescending, pitying smiles and told us we were way too young to know anything about real love. They said high school sweethearts were a myth, a statistical anomaly that inevitably ended in tragedy.

But there was one person. The only person in the entire world who actually believed in us and our love without a single ounce of doubt.

My brother.

Just the mere passing thought of my brother makes my chest heave violently. The air is suddenly sucked completely out of the room. My throat tightens so painfully that I choke on my own breath, and I begin to cry even harder, massive, body-wracking sobs tearing through me. I grip the marble edge of the kitchen island so hard my knuckles turn stark white.

No. I can't. I can't go there.

I violently shove the thought of him away, clamping down on my own mind with brutal force. I am forcefully, desperately shutting the lid on a tragic, agonizing can of worms that I have kept strictly sealed and buried deep within the darkest corner of my soul for seven long years. I promised myself I wouldn't open that box. One day, maybe, I will have to unpack all that trauma. One day, I will have to face the ghost of my brother and the overwhelming, crushing guilt that surrounds his memory. But today is absolutely, unequivocally not that day. Today, I am already drowning. If I let the memory of him fully surface right now, I won't survive the night.

I force my brain back to Brooks. It’s a lesser pain, a more manageable agony.

Brooks and I survived the brutal trials of high school together. We navigated the chaotic, drunken years of college together. I went to every single one of his hockey games. I sat in the freezing cold arenas, cheering until my voice was entirely gone. His teammates didn't even call me by my first name; they literally used to call me 'Mrs. Sinclair'. That was how permanent I was in his life. That was how established our relationship was. Absolutely everyone in our lives expected us to play the long game. Everyone could clearly see we were set for life. Everyone, apparently, except for Brooks.

The person who was supposed to be playing on my side of the field. The only person I truly, deeply cared about in this entire, miserable world.

Yet, despite all of that massive history, despite a decade of shared secrets and sacrifices, I was never somehow enough for him to actually marry. In all that time, he never looked at me and saw a bride. He never looked at me and saw someone worth putting a ring on.

I didn't even care about the extravagant stuff! That’s the most agonizing part of all of this. I vividly remember the days when I used to have to literally beg just for him to be mentally present for our relationship. I used to plead with him just to look up from his phone when I was talking about my day. I used to cry myself to sleep because he couldn't even remember our anniversary, let alone plan a date. I never asked for a month-long, luxurious cruise. I never demanded an over-the-top, glamorous wedding. I honestly never even cared about changing my last name or wearing a massive diamond ring on my finger. I just wanted his attention. I just wanted his love. I just wanted to be his. Forever.

Now, in the span of just seven short months since we ended our decade-long relationship, he has magically found his blushing bride. He is happily, eagerly planning an extravagant, over-the-top wedding. He is showering this mysterious, unknown woman with the exact kind of effort and dedication I spent ten years desperately begging for.

He didn't just move on. He transformed into the perfect partner for someone else entirely.

Katya once told me, during one of our many late-night wine sessions when I was sobbing over his emotional distance, that the only real reason I wanted to marry Brooks so badly was because everyone else expected it. She said I was clinging to the sunk-cost fallacy, terrified of throwing away ten years of investment, rather than actually wanting the man he had become.

Maybe she was right.

Kat is always right. It’s one of her most annoying, yet endearing qualities.

That specific thought hits my brain right at the exact same moment the heavy volume of wine hits my bloodstream like a speeding freight train. Suddenly, I realize I am completely and utterly wasted. The room is actively spinning, the sleek kitchen cabinets blurring into a single, continuous line of dark wood. My legs feel like they are made of wet spaghetti.

I stumble away from the kitchen island, dragging the heavy cashmere blanket behind me like a depressed, royal cape. I need to get back to the couch. The couch is safe. The couch doesn't judge me for leaving his name as 'Babe'.

I make it to the living room, my vision swaying violently. I collapse onto the plush cushions, letting out a heavy, pathetic groan. But I’m still holding my phone, and I suddenly realize my right hand is empty. The wine. Where did the rest of the wine go?

I clumsily roll right off the edge of the couch in a desperate, uncoordinated search for the missing wine bottle, my limbs feeling like absolute lead. I hit the hardwood floor with a soft, undignified thud. I fumble clumsily on the floor, my shaking hands slapping against the polished wood, trying to locate the heavy glass bottle.

I can't find it. I give up.

I need backup. I need an adult. I need my best friend.

Lying flat on my back on Katya's expensive rug, I struggle immensely to operate my phone. My thumbs keep hitting the wrong letters, my blurry eyes struggling to focus on the brightly lit screen. Finally, I manage to pull up Katya's contact and frantically dial her number. She always knows exactly what to do. She always fixes my messes.

The line barely rings for half a second before she picks up the call immediately. Her voice cuts straight through the dark, suffocating despair filling the room. It is warm, steady, and acts like a vital, desperately needed lifeline holding me tethered to reality.

“Hey, honeycomb,” she says playfully, her voice smooth and confident. “Isn’t it a little early for a wellness check? It’s not even dinnertime.”

“Brooks is getting married,” I slur pathetically into the receiver. The words are thick, heavy, and completely uncoordinated. They taste like sour grapes and absolute heartbreak. I sound like a dying walrus, but I can't bring myself to care.

I struggle violently, trying to peel my heavy, drunken body off the floor. I push up onto my hands and knees, dragging the cashmere blanket with me, tangling my legs in the expensive fabric. I blink blearily, aggressively rubbing my eyes, desperately searching for the couch that has suddenly gone completely missing from my field of vision.

“Where the hell did the couch go?” I mumble to myself, ignoring the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

Taking a clumsy, unbalanced step forward in the spinning room, I slam my bare toe incredibly hard against the solid, unforgiving edge of Katya's heavy mahogany coffee table.

BAM.

For a fraction of a second, my drunken brain doesn't register what just happened. And then, the blinding agony travels up my leg.

“Shit!” I scream in absolute, unfiltered pain.

I clutch my throbbing foot with both hands, dropping my phone onto the floor in the process. The pain is sharp and fiery. In my wildly clumsy attempt to regain my balance on one leg while clutching the other, I miscalculate my center of gravity completely. The room tilts drastically to the left, my arms flail out uselessly, and I fall straight backward.

I brace for the brutal impact of the hardwood floor, but instead, I land with a heavy, bouncy thud right onto the very plush cushions of the couch I had just sworn wasn't there a second ago.

I lay there, staring up at the intricate design of the ceiling, completely breathless. I glare suspiciously down at the cushions beneath me. I swear to God this piece of furniture has a mind of its own. I make a mental note to tell Katya that her expensive couch literally disappears and reappears from time to time just to mess with my head.

I lean over the edge of the couch, groaning as the room continues to spin, and snatch my phone up from the rug.

“What?!” Kat practically shouts into the phone, her voice piercing through the speaker. The sudden volume makes me wince. In the background, I can hear the muffled, chaotic background noise of her corporate workplace—phones ringing, heels clicking against tile, someone barking orders about a spreadsheet.

I can hear her quickly shuffling around, the sound of a heavy door clicking shut, before she significantly lowers her voice to a harsh, disbelieving whisper.

“I’m sorry, I’m at work, but did I hear you correctly?” she asks, her tone laced with absolute disbelief and a heavy dose of protective anger.

“You did!” I announce dramatically to the ceiling, throwing my free arm out in a theatrical gesture that no one is around to see. “He sent me a formal, digital invitation to his wedding. Seven months, Kat! Seven! And... and a month-long couple-only cruise before the wedding! Can you believe that? A whole month trapped on a boat celebrating their magical, perfect love!”

I try to sit up, but gravity feels exceptionally heavy right now, so I stay horizontal, staring blankly at the chandelier.

“Since I clearly can’t move on,” I continue, my voice rising in a hysterical, drunken pitch, “since I am clearly a pathetic, broken shell of a human being who still has him saved as *Babe* in my phone... you’ll have to be my plus one. We're going on a couples-only cruise, Katya! Pack your bags! We're gonna drink all their champagne and throw ourselves overboard!”

I let out a loud, unhinged cackle. It bubbles up from the very bottom of my chest, a chaotic, breathless sound that echoes through the empty apartment. I sound like a complete lunatic. I sound like the villain in a cheap soap opera who just lost her absolute mind.

I laugh and laugh until my ribs physically ache, until the sheer absurdity of everything going wrong in my life reaches a boiling point.

And then, I abruptly cut the laughter short.

Wait. What was I even laughing at? Nothing about this is funny. This is the worst day of my entire life.

The silence in the apartment suddenly feels suffocatingly deafening. The only sound is the frantic, uneven rhythm of my own breathing. I pull the phone away from my ear and squint suspiciously at the glowing screen. The call time is still ticking upward. She hasn't hung up.

“Kat?” I ask, my voice dropping back down to a pathetic, tremulous whisper. “You still there?”

For a moment, there is only the faint static of the cellular connection.

Then, her voice finally comes through the speaker. But it has changed. It suddenly softens in a very peculiar, heavy way that makes the sick, vicious twist in my stomach return with an absolute vengeance. The protective, angry energy from a moment ago has entirely vanished, replaced by something far more cautious. Something hesitant.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” she says quietly. “Just… stay put, okay? Don't move from the couch. I’m leaving the office right now. I’ll be back from work before you know it.”

She takes a breath, and a tiny sliver of her usual sass bleeds through. “And stop drinking my wine, honeycomb. That shit’s expensive.”

I let out a wet, shaky breath, slightly comforted by the familiar scolding. But then, she pauses.

It is a long, highly deliberate pause. It lasts just long enough for me to hear the incredibly heavy weight settling deeply into the dead silence between us. It’s the kind of silence that precedes a massive, life-altering drop. The alcohol in my system seems to freeze solid, my drunken haze parting just enough for a sharp spike of anxiety to pierce through my chest.

“And, Ade…” she begins, her tone entirely stripped of all its previous lightness. It’s dead serious. It’s the voice she uses when someone has died, or when the world is fundamentally shifting on its axis.

“I think I have something important to tell you.”

Before I can even formulate a single question, before I can even open my mouth to ask her what the hell she means, or brace myself for whatever massive bomb she is absolutely about to drop directly onto my already shattered life...

*Beep.*

The call abruptly ends.

I pull the phone away from my face, staring blindly at the dark, lifeless screen as the call log disappears. I am left completely alone, trapped on a disappearing couch, marinating in a mixture of expensive wine and deep-seated grief, swallowed whole by the dead, uneasy silence of the room.