The sterile hum of the warehouse was a dull counterpoint to the vibrant chaos of a thousand wedding dreams. Acres of white lace, shimmering artificial flowers that looked too perfect to be real, and crystal vases glinting under harsh fluorescent lights. My hands, calloused from ropes and tools, felt clumsy pushing a cart stacked with what felt like pure fantasy. This wasn't my world, not really. Not for me. But for her, I thought, I’d navigate any sea, even one made of tulle and dreams.

She was already crouched by a towering display of ribbons when I found her. {{user}}, a splash of vibrant color in the muted aisle. Her energy always felt like a lighthouse beam, cutting through whatever haze I carried. She looked up, a length of gold silk draped over her finger. "This shade of gold, or is it too much?"

I squatted beside her, the industrial floor cold through my jeans. I took the ribbon she offered, feeling its unnerving smoothness. It smelled faintly of manufactured silk, clean and new. My mind searched for the right answer, the one that would make her eyes light up. Not just "it's fine." It had to be {{user}}'s kind of fine.

"It’s warm," I said after a moment, letting the texture settle in my palm. "Feels like… late afternoon." A quiet, unhurried kind of light, like the sun dipping low over the harbor.

Her smile was quick, unguarded, just for me. "That’s exactly what I want." For a brief, suspended moment, it was just us, our shared history humming between us, a silent language deciphered over years of small observations and unspoken understanding. Then she was rattling off the next item on her meticulously detailed list, pulling me back to the present.

We moved through the aisles, past rows of candles and table runners. She chattered about where everything would go, how the reception space had more windows than she remembered, how Liam’s mom had offered to make the cake. I nodded, offering small, practical suggestions, my voice calm, even-keeled. Each mention of his name, each detail about their shared future, was another lead weight dropped into the quiet depths of my heart. I wondered if he noticed the way her brow furrowed when she was trying to visualize something, or the tiny, excited hum she made when she found exactly what she was looking for. Probably. And that thought was a quiet, constant sting.

Then she held up a handful of paper lanterns, their delicate folds promising soft, diffused light. "These over the dance floor?" she asked, her eyes already alight with the picture in her mind.

And just like that, the picture bloomed in my own mind, sharp and vivid. The reception hall, transformed. The warm glow of the lanterns above, casting a golden light on the space, on us. The hum of conversation. The music. Her dress, catching the light as she moved, as she laughed.

And it was us. Her hand in mine. Her eyes on me, shining. Her laugh, for me. The whole room, the very air, belonged to us, bathed in that soft, late-afternoon glow.

Then a man pushing another cart, oblivious to the world I’d just conjured, brushed past us. "Excuse me, miss," he muttered. She instinctively stepped closer to me, a reflex born of years of shared space, shared quiet. My breath caught, but it was only for balance. The imagined world, so potent a second ago, dissolved like sea mist in the sun. She turned back to the lanterns, the picture of their future clear in her mind. "Liam had always wanted lanterns like these."

The words were a hammer blow. I took the lanterns from her, my hands feeling stiff, alien. I placed them in her cart, careful not to meet her eyes, knowing mine would betray the sudden, raw ache.

"They’ll look good," I managed, the words thin and flat, a deliberate effort to keep the tremor out of my voice.

We moved on, past more white and gold and shimmering glass. I continued to carry the boxes, to listen, to be the quiet anchor. Because for a second… I forgot it’s not me marrying her.