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'1,2,3,4,5,6'
You woke up gasping for air, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free from your chest. Another nightmare—the same one that haunted you night after night: mocking faces, sharp words cutting deep, and that heavy feeling of everything falling apart. Sweat soaked your pajamas, and the cool morning air from the open window did little to calm you down.
It was Saturday, and as a banker at one of the city's top firms, weekends meant no early meetings or rushed commutes through the financial district. You reached for your phone on the sleek nightstand—its case a custom leather piece from that trip to Milan last year—and unlocked the screen. The soft glow lit up your spacious bedroom, all high ceilings and silk drapes, as you scrolled through the news apps and social feeds, looking for something to shake off the dream.
Then you saw it in the university group chat: a wave of messages about a classmate's wedding today. Your finger paused. You hadn't heard a thing—no invite in your inbox, no heads-up from anyone. Digging back through the posts, you realized fancy digital invites had gone out weeks ago, complete with elegant designs and personal notes. To almost everyone... but not you.
You knew the bride well. Christy had been in your high school class too. Back then, she was quiet and small, always hanging back in the hallways. On your first day, you noticed her right away—someone who seemed like she could use a friend in your world of private tutors and weekend getaways. You made a point to pull her in, chatting during lunch until she warmed up and joined your group. It started easy: sharing stories, little secrets. You played that game you and your friends loved—Confidment and Secret Share. They'd open up about their worries, their hidden struggles, and you'd listen, keeping their trust close while sharing just the fun parts of your life: yacht trips and designer hauls that made your days sparkle. It felt like a fair trade at the time—you held their heavier stuff, they got a glimpse of your easy world.
With Christy, it went deeper fast. She admitted over cafeteria sandwiches one afternoon that she was on a full scholarship, scraping by in a tiny apartment while you jetted off to summer homes. You tucked that away, thinking it might come in handy someday—like a quiet way to keep her close. But looking back, in your privileged bubble, you didn't see how it might build quiet resentment. Not until the big fallout, when everything shattered in front of everyone.
Now, staring at the wedding photo someone shared—a soft-focus shot with floral borders—your stomach dropped. She was marrying *him*. Daniel. Your ex. The guy who'd turned your life upside down, spreading lies and laughs that still stung like fresh cuts.
You tossed the phone onto the king-sized bed, its duvet imported from Italy, and let out a raw scream that scratched your throat. Tears came next, hot and fast, blurring the room as you hugged your knees. It was just past 6:00 a.m., the city skyline outside your penthouse window still wrapped in soft dawn light. What a way to start the day—ruined before breakfast. But you'd felt this ache so many times now, it barely surprised you anymore. Numbness had settled in, like an old blanket you couldn't shake off.
It wasn't really the wedding that hurt. No, it was him getting his happy ending—smiling in photos, building a life—while you fought off the darkness every morning, your family's money and steady banking career no shield against the quiet depression that followed you around.
Dark ideas swirled in your head. Show up at the ceremony, make a scene? Or just... end it? But you'd been there before. The time you tried a scarf as a noose, the burn too sharp, forcing you to yank it down. Or mixing pills in a haze, only to spend the night hugging the toilet with cramps. No, that road led nowhere good. You pushed the thoughts aside, letting the sobs take over for a minute.
Then a knock echoed through the door—soft but firm, pulling you back.
"Who is it?" you called, voice thick from crying.
"It's me, cuz. Open up," came the familiar reply. Your cousin—the last person you wanted around, especially after his dumb comments when he first moved in, poking at your old hurts like they were funny stories.
"What do you want?" you snapped, not hiding the edge in your tone.
"I heard you scream. You okay?" His voice was muffled by the heavy oak door, but it sounded... concerned?
You turned away, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, fresh tears welling up. You sniffled, trying to form words, but nothing came out—just more quiet hitches.
Maybe he heard them, because his next words softened, like a hand on your shoulder. "I don't know what's going on or the full story... but everyone carries something heavy. I'm sorry I was a jerk when I got here—total douche move. Can we start over? Get to know each other without the baggage?"
He paused, and you heard him sigh through the wood. "Look, I know I don't seem like it, but I'm a good listener. If you want to talk, I'm right here. Whatever's weighing on you, we can figure it out together. Think of me as a quick fix for the rough days. I get why you wouldn't trust me yet—that's fair. But give it a try? If you're still up for the party later, I'll be downstairs at our usual time... hoping you'll come down."
Quiet fell after that. No footsteps retreating—just space, like he was waiting a beat before heading off.
You wiped your face with the edge of the sheet, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. Give him a real chance, or keep that wall up? The party would decide it one way or another. With a deep breath, you slid out of bed, feet sinking into the plush rug. You walked to your walk-in closet, the one lined with mirrored doors and shelves of cashmere sweaters. Your hands moved on autopilot, pulling out a simple yet sharp outfit: a tailored blouse in soft ivory, slim pants that moved easy, and low heels that clicked with quiet confidence. It fit the day—polished on the outside, even if inside you were still piecing your self....