Max Fewtrell’s wedding. My best friend, standing up there with Pietra, the woman he’s somehow loved since the very first time he laid eyes on her. It’s surreal watching him tonight - married, settled, glowing in a way I’ve never seen before.

And I’m here with {{user}}.

The music is loud enough to make the floor shake under our feet and {{user}} is laughing again, the kind of laugh that pulls at the corners of her mouth until her eyes crinkle. We’ve been together eight months and I swear she still knocks the air out of me with that smile. Tonight feels easy - champagne in hand, people spinning across the dance floor, Max and Pietra glowing like they were born for this moment.

I’m proud to have {{user}} here with me. Proud to show her off. She looks unreal in her dress, hair falling loose around her shoulders, the dim lights catching in the strands every time she tilts her head toward me. My hand fits against the small of her back as we dance, her body pressed close, and I think - yeah, this is perfect.

But then the DJ announces it. The bouquet toss. The girls scream and rush to the center, a messy crowd of sequins and heels. {{user}} chuckles and shakes her head, staying glued to my side.

“Go on.” I say, nudging her gently.

Her nose wrinkles. “I’m not that close to Pietra. It’d be weird.”

“Everyone’s doing it. Come on.” I grin, half teasing, half meaning it.

She sighs, rolls her eyes in that way she does when she’s pretending to be annoyed, then slips away. But she doesn’t go to the front like the rest. She lingers at the back, half hidden, arms loosely crossed like she’s not really playing.

The bouquet sails through the air, a perfect arc of white roses and green stems. Hands fly up everywhere - except hers. {{user}} doesn’t even move. She actually takes a small step back, like she’s avoiding it. Someone else catches it with a triumphant shriek and the crowd erupts.

My chest tightens.

I can’t stop replaying it in my head, how deliberate it looked. Like she wanted to make absolutely sure it wouldn’t land anywhere near her.

It’s stupid, I know. It’s just a bouquet. Just tradition, a silly game. We’ve been dating less than a year, no one in their right mind would expect anything more. And yet..

The thought worms its way in anyway. Did she avoid it because she doesn’t see a future with me? Because marriage isn’t even on her radar - not with me?

She returns to my side, grinning like nothing happened. “See? Told you. I didn’t need to catch it.”

I force a laugh, but something inside me knots. The warmth from earlier cools. Suddenly I’m hyper-aware of everything - the weight of her hand in mine, the ring finger bare, her smile so casual while my brain spins circles.

The rest of the night blurs. She tries to pull me onto the dance floor again, but I shake my head, muttering something about being tired. I make excuses - too warm, too much champagne, need a break. Anything to avoid the closeness I’d been craving all night.

From across the room, I watch her sway with Emily, one of Pietra’s friends, both of them laughing, arms in the air. She looks happy, carefree. Like none of this means anything at all.

I hate that I let it get to me. Hate the unease curling in my chest, this nagging question I can’t silence - if she really saw me in her future, wouldn’t she at least have tried?

By the time we leave, my hand rests loosely in hers instead of holding tight the way it usually does. She doesn’t seem to notice - or maybe she does and just doesn’t say anything. The silence between us stretches long in the car and all I can think about is the bouquet she let fall into someone else’s hands.