When friends mentioned wedding details—venue, dress, date—I casually asked, “Who’s getting married?” They blinked. “Amber! You didn’t know?!”
I was shocked.
She’s my closest friend! Or at least, I thought she was. We texted every day, met up for wine nights, sent each other memes at 2 a.m.
Weeks passed. Invites were sent. Photos of calligraphy and wax seals hit Instagram stories.
But mine never came. No explanation. Just silence.
So on her wedding day, I crashed it. I wore something simple—a pale blue wrap dress—and slipped in quietly near the back. The room fell silent.
People stared. Some looked at me with pity. Then Amber turned, saw me—and went pale.
That’s when I saw the groom… none other than my ex, Reza. Yeah. That Reza.
Reza, who I dated for two and a half years. The one I was head-over-heels for, the one who broke up with me six months ago because he “wasn’t ready for commitment.” The one Amber had cried with me over, insisting he was an idiot and I deserved so much better. Now she was marrying him.
My body felt like it left the room before my feet did. I couldn’t even speak. But I didn’t need to—Reza was already walking toward me, fast.
He stopped a few feet away, his face somewhere between panic and guilt. “Sana,” he said, low enough so only I could hear. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Apparently,” I said.
My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. “Neither should you.”
Amber rushed over, bouquet trembling in her hand. “This isn’t what you think,” she whispered, eyes darting around the room.
“Isn’t it?” I said. But I didn’t cry. Not there.
Not for them. I just turned and walked out. I made it to my car before the tears came.
Not sobbing, just a steady, quiet flood. And I drove home. The thing is, I couldn’t even process it all that day.
There were too many layers. I felt betrayed, but also stupid. Had I missed something?
Had they been sneaking around? Later that night, my phone blew up. Texts from mutual friends.
A few saying they “had no idea.” A couple telling me I was brave for showing up. One even had the audacity to ask if I wanted to go out for drinks. But the one that stood out was from Amber.
“Please let me explain.”
I ignored it. For three days. Then, finally, I said, “Fine.
Talk.”
We met at a park near her apartment, the same place we’d done countless Sunday picnics and vent sessions. This time, we sat on separate benches. “I didn’t plan it this way,” she started.
Her voice was shaky. “He reached out to me two months after you two broke up. Said he needed a friend.”
“And you volunteered as tribute?” I asked.
She winced. “It wasn’t like that. It just… happened.
We talked. Then one night, we kissed. I swear I felt awful.
I wanted to tell you. But the longer I waited, the worse it felt. And then suddenly, we were engaged.”
“Suddenly?” I repeated.
“Okay, not suddenly. But it felt fast. We weren’t planning to invite many people.
I knew if you found out, you’d never forgive me. And I didn’t want to lose you.”
I stared at her. “So instead, you lied and hoped I’d never find out?”
She bit her lip.
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