The invitation arrived on a dull afternoon, tucked between bills and postcards from places that didn’t feel like home. You recognized the handwriting before even reading the names: Ginevra Molly W & Harry James P cordially invite you...

You stared at it for far too long. You were living abroad now, in a city where no one knew your history, where her name was never mentioned in passing. It felt safer that way.

You didn’t go to the wedding.

Instead, you sat alone on your balcony that night, a cheap bottle of firewhisky in hand, the moon watching silently above. The city buzzed below you, unaware that your heart was quietly breaking all over again. Somewhere, miles away, she was dancing with someone else.

Half-drunk and aching, you wrote a letter. You weren’t even sure why—maybe it was to say goodbye, or maybe you just needed to know you still remembered how her name felt on paper.

"I didn’t come because I couldn’t watch you say yes to someone else. Because I still dream about you. Because I’ve spent every day wondering if you ever doubted it, even for a second."

You never meant to send it.

But the alcohol made you reckless. You tied the letter to the leg of a passing owl—your handwriting messy, your thoughts messier—and let it fly into the night.

The next morning, you woke up with a pounding headache and regret in your throat. You barely noticed the window was open… until the knock came at your door.

Ginny.

In her wedding dress. Eyes red. Shoulders tense.