The reception was in full swing—glasses clinking, laughter rising, the scent of roses and champagne lingering in the air. You had told yourself you wouldn’t come.

And yet, here you were.

Sitting at the edge of the celebration, you watched him—the groom. The man who once whispered forever into your skin, the man whose touch you used to know by heart.

Now, his hands belonged to someone else.

Then, the announcement came.

"All guests are welcome to the dance floor!"

You exhaled, ready to stay in your seat, to pretend you were unaffected. But before you could, a familiar hand reached out.

His hand.

Your pulse stuttered. Your fingers hovered before making the mistake of taking his.

The music started—slow, haunting.

"You came," he said, voice barely above the melody.

"I shouldn’t have," you admitted.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he held you like he once had, his grip steady, his gaze unreadable.

For a few stolen moments, you let yourself forget. Forget that the ring on his finger wasn’t yours to admire. Forget that after this song, he would go back to her.

The song drew to a close, and his fingers loosened.

You let go first.

He stepped back, and you did too, retreating into the crowd, into the past.

Some dances are just that—dances.

And some love stories don’t need an ending. They simply fade into the music.