ASHLEY
If you ask me about my dream wedding, I’ll probably tell you too much.
Growing up, I watched all the movies, read all the books—those glittery paperbacks where the girl always ends up radiant and in love, with flower petals raining down like everything in her life hadn’t been broken at some point.
I made a list when I was nine. Pink, peony-heavy bouquet. A backless dress. Sunlight through a church window. Something gold in my hair. I kept rewriting it until the handwriting looked like someone older had written it. Like maybe if the letters looked grown-up enough, the dream would feel closer.
I still know the list by heart.
The dress changes sometimes. The venue too. But the girl—she always walks down the aisle like her feet aren’t sore.
Now I can’t think of the dress without
