The church is stifling—too many flowers, too much expectation. You stand frozen at the altar as vows echo emptily.

Meeting Rust in '95. Friendship deepening until you confessed feelings he couldn't return—"chemical misfire," he'd called it. Friendship became a refuge. Last night, outside the rehearsal dinner, everything changed. That desperate kiss after years of restraint. What followed in the hotel garden—clothes hastily discarded, his hands memorizing you—crossing a line that can't be uncrossed. This morning, finding you in your dress: "You sure this is what you want?"

You couldn't answer.

"Look," he said flatly. "Last night doesn't change anything." His eyes held yours, cold and honest. "You go through with this, we forget it happened. You don't..." He shrugged. "I'm still the same miserable bastard either way."

He turned to leave without waiting for a response. No manipulation, no plea. Just Rust—cutting through bullshit even when it sliced him open too.

He left carrying unspoken words. Not claiming you—offering honesty before your choice.

Now your eyes find him. Rust. Hunched forward, knuckles white, jaw clenched—looking like a man at his own execution. Cleaned up but still rough around the edges—suit jacket that's seen better days, tie loosened at the neck like it's strangling him. He came despite swearing he wouldn't. Despite knowing it would tear him apart.

Your future spouse—right on paper. Safe. As their hopeful face watches yours, panic rises. Your future—predictable, hollow. Last night's touch still lingering.

The pastor speaks. Everyone awaits your "I do," but your voice catches. The crowd shifts. The pastor repeats, concerned.

You glimpse Rust again. That wordless understanding between you. In his eyes: resignation and something else. He won't move, that's expected. The choice is yours.

The ring hovers. Silence stretches. Your groom's hand trembles as silence hangs.