By the time we were led into the waiting room near the ceremony space, my nerves hummed beneath my skin, a constant low current I could no longer ignore.
The room itself was built to hold anticipation, thick curtains drawn back just enough to let light spill across polished floors, the faint scent of roses lingering in the air like a script already written. A chair sat near the mirror, a small table held water and tissues placed with almost insulting optimism. It was a room that assumed brides cried from joy, not fear.
The quiet pressed in. Tall windows. Too much stillness.
I lifted the glass of water but my throat refused to cooperate, and I set it back untouched. My reflection stared back at me, steady and pale, composure painted on like makeup. My hands were too still, fingers curled
