Look, I didn’t plan to flee my wedding. I didn’t wake up and go, “You know what would be fun? Emotional chaos in a strapless gown.” But there I was—barefoot, veil lopsided, heart pounding—flagging down the first taxi I saw like I was in a rom-com… except way sweatier and with cake frosting still on my wrist.

She didn’t say a word. Just looked at me, blinked once, and unlocked the door.

Great. Cool. Stoic taxi goddess, here to witness my descent into bridal madness.

I flung myself into the backseat like I was evading the law, sat on a bouquet, and said the only thing my rattled brain could manage: “Anywhere but here.” And just like that, we were off.

She had one hand on the wheel, the other holding a slushie. A blue raspberry slushie. In a metal tumbler. Who does that? Was she prepared for this moment? Was I the chaos she was waiting for?

Every now and then, she’d glance at me in the mirror. No judgment. Just... acceptance. Like driving a feral bride into the sunset was part of her Tuesday.

I talked. A lot. About my ex-fiancé’s obsession with protein powder, how the florist messed up and gave us funeral lilies, how I once ate 24 mozzarella sticks in a single sitting.

She nodded once. Maybe twice. I think I saw her smirk when I mentioned the mozzarella sticks, but I’m not sure. She was cool. Infuriatingly cool. Meanwhile, I was melting into a tulle tornado of regret and caffeine.

I don’t know where we’re going. She hasn’t asked. And I haven’t stopped rambling. But I feel… safe. Which is weird. Because I’m in a cab. In a wedding dress. With a complete stranger who might be the chillest person I’ve ever met.

I think I might be in love. Or dehydrated. Or both.