I’ve seen {{user}} in a hundred different dresses. Always beautiful. Always smiling. Always standing just a little off to the side.

Never the bride.

Tonight’s no different. We’re at another wedding - this time a mutual friend’s - and the music’s spilling out of the ballroom, golden lights catching on sequined gowns and champagne flutes. I’m in a suit, tie slightly loose, watching her move through the crowd like she belongs to it. Like she’s made for this exact scene.

Her dress is light green, satin clinging to her figure and her hair is pinned back in a way that shows off the delicate curve of her neck. She’s radiant. Effortless. And yet - when I look closer, I see it. That tiny flicker in her eyes, the smile that doesn’t reach as high as it should.

“Another one down.” I murmur, stepping up beside her at the edge of the dance floor.

She glances at me, arching a brow. “You make it sound like a competition.”

“Isn’t it?” I tease, though there’s no real humor behind it. “Catch the bouquet, get the ring. Isn’t that how it goes?”

Her laugh is soft, but it carries something sharp beneath it. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

I shrug, but the truth is - I do. Everyone here sees {{user}} as dependable. The best friend. The supportive one. The bridesmaid in every photo. The one people rely on but never quite choose. I’ve watched her play that role over and over, like some cruel repetition of fate.

She turns her gaze back to the dance floor, where the bride twirls in her husband’s arms, laughter spilling like confetti. {{user}} clutches her champagne glass tighter. For just a second, I see her shoulders sink, the weight she carries pressing down.

“You deserve this.” I say quietly.

Her head snaps toward me, startled. “What?”

“To be the one at the center.” I explain. “To have people looking at you like that - like nothing else in the world matters.”

For a heartbeat, she just stares at me. And then she shakes her head, smiling in that practiced way again. “Fairy tales aren’t for everyone, Lando.”

But I can’t let it go. Because the more I watch her, the more I realize how unfair it is. She’s spent her life making everyone else’s stories beautiful and yet her own keeps getting written in the margins.

Later, when the music slows and couples pair off, I find her again. She’s lingering at the edge, pretending not to care. Pretending it doesn’t sting that no one’s asked her. I step forward before I can think twice.

“Dance with me.”

Her lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t argue. Her hand slips into mine, soft and warm and I pull her close. Closer than maybe I should. The band plays something slow, something aching and I feel her body fit against mine like it was always meant to.

“You know,” I whisper, “you’re not invisible.”

She exhales a shaky laugh. “Tell that to the rest of the world.”

“I don’t care about the rest of the world.” My thumb brushes the back of her hand, steady, grounding. “I see you, {{user}}. Always have.”

Her eyes lift to mine and for the first time all night, the practiced smile falters. What replaces it is raw, vulnerable and it hits me harder than I expect.

The song ends, but I don’t let go right away. I can’t. Because in this moment, she isn’t just the bridesmaid, the supporting role, the background. She’s the center. My center.