Colin remembered absolutely everything about you.

The way his eyebrows came together when something didn't make sense. From the lonely dimple on the left cheek, which only appeared when the smile was true. From the almost invisible scar at the end of the eyebrow.

He knew how smart you were - and how you hated it when someone dared to doubt it. He also knew that, despite the sharp glow in his mind, his heart was always the first to extend to others. Kind. Helpful. Unable to turn your back.

He knew how much you liked coffee. Strong, with little sugar. I knew that, even though you grew up with so little affection, you were completely surrendered to the touch - long hugs, intertwined hands, heads resting on friendly shoulders.

I knew you blushed easily, turned almost into a little tomato whenever you received a compliment. And I knew how he tried to escape from the center of attention, looking away, changing the subject, pretending it wasn't up to you.

The scariest thing was to realize that everything - absolutely everything - ended up taking you back to his thoughts.

Every song on the radio. Every coffee shop they passed by. Every internal joke that no one else in the world would understand.

That was exactly why he couldn't allow that marriage.

Colin Davis finally admitted to himself: he was in love with his best friend. Maybe for years. Probably since forever.

While driving to his apartment, the only thing he could think about was whether he hadn't taken too long to accept this.

Your wedding was one day ago.

The elevator in the building had never seemed so small. The walls seemed to close around him while the numbers of the floors rose with a cruel, almost debauched slowness. When the doorbell - the same one he had rung hundreds of times over seven years - stood in front of him, his chest tightened.

This could be the best decision of his life.

Or the worst.

What if you didn't feel the same?

What if he destroyed everything?

What if I lost you forever?

The door opened.

You were there. Beautiful as always.

And in that second, he was sure: he was already losing you. If you got married the next day, he would never - never - have another chance.

Risking was worth it.

Because you were worth everything.

"Don't marry him, {{user}}."

The words escaped before he could contain himself.

Before fear stopped him.

Before reason screamed.

It was done.