Reopened Wounds
The next letter, thicker, the envelope a shade of faded cream, felt heavy in my hand. June 2015. The date, etched into my memory, a brand. My stomach clenched, a cold knot twisting within.
I didn’t need to open it. The words, raw and desperate, were already imprinted on my soul. The night before the wedding, alone in my cramped apartment, a half-empty bottle of wine and a heart overflowing with unspoken regrets.
Yet, I unfolded it.
Dear Daniel,
Tomorrow, you marry someone else. Someone who isn’t me.
I tell myself I’m happy. And I am. For you. Emily, radiant, makes you shine brighter than I’ve ever seen. But a dark, insidious whisper persists: what if? What if I’d been brave enough, just once, to speak the truth?
Years spent hiding behind the mask of friendship, a charade I’d convinced myself was noble. Tonight, the facade crumbles. I’ve lied. To you. To myself. To everyone.
Why write this? It’s easier to bleed onto paper than to face you. I’ll never send this. Your happiness is a fragile thing, and I won’t shatter it. But I needed to say it, if only to the silence of this room.
Yours, always,
Elena
My hands trembled, the paper a fragile thing against my skin. The memory, a tidal wave, crashed over me.
(Flashback)
The wedding, a picture-perfect scene. Of course it was. Daniel, the architect of perfect moments. A sun-drenched garden, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of roses, the gentle swell of a string quartet. Emily, luminous in her lace gown. Daniel… his eyes, a mirror reflecting her light, as if she were the universe.
I stood at the periphery, a silent observer, each smile, each laugh, a shard of glass piercing my heart. I’m happy for him. This is enough. The mantra, a hollow echo. But as he spoke his vows, promising forever, the lie crumbled.
“Elena!” His voice, warm and familiar, cut through the haze. He approached, his face alight with joy. “You made it!”
I forced a smile, the muscles in my face stiff. A lump, sharp and painful, lodged in my throat. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
He pulled me into a hug, a brief, familiar warmth. For a fleeting moment, I let myself pretend. Me. He’s holding me. Marrying me. Loving me.
He stepped back, his eyes searching mine. “You okay? You seem… quiet.”
I nodded, blinking back tears. “Fine. Just… really happy.”
He smiled, oblivious to the storm raging within. “Thanks, Lena. Means a lot.”
He turned, drawn back into the celebration, Emily’s laughter a distant, mocking melody. I stood there, a hollow ache spreading through me, as if I were being torn apart, piece by piece.
I scrubbed at my eyes, the memory still a raw wound. That night, a blur of forced smiles and empty laughter, a desperate charade.
My phone buzzed. Daniel.
Running a few minutes late. Be there soon.
A sigh escaped my lips. Part of me yearned to stay, to lose myself in the letters. But duty, years of ingrained habit, pulled me back.
I folded the letter, the paper thin and fragile, and placed it back in the box. The other letters, silent witnesses, beckoned, each a shard of my buried heart. But time was a relentless tide.
I stood, brushing the dust from my jeans, and glanced at the box. They waited. But Daniel waited too.
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