I plan weddings for a living.
Every day, I watch people promise forever with trembling hands and hopeful eyes. I fix veils, adjust cufflinks, calm nervous brides, and remind grooms to breathe. I make love look easy. Effortless. Magical.
And yet, I don't believe in it.
At least not for myself.
The irony isn't lost on me. It sits heavy in my chest as I stand at the edge of the ballroom, clipboard pressed against my ribs, scanning the room for anything that might go wrong. The chandeliers glow warm above perfectly arranged tables. White roses spill over crystal vases. Soft music hums in the background like a promise whispered too early.
Everything is perfect.
It always has to be.
"Amara," Zainab calls from across the room, her voice sharp and familiar. "The bride is looking for you. And she's doing that thing with her hands again."
I sigh. "Of course she is."
I smooth my dress simple, navy blue, professional and walk toward the bridal suite. As I move, I catch my reflection in one of the mirrored walls. I look put together. Calm. Like a woman who has her life figured out.
No one sees the careful distance I keep from people. The way I flinch at the word forever. The silent rule I live by now:
Love is beautiful. But it always asks for too much.
Inside the bridal suite, the bride is pacing, heels abandoned, mascara dangerously close to smudging.
"Amara," she breathes when she sees me. "What if this is a mistake?"
I smile softly, the way I always do. The reassuring smile. The one that has convinced dozens of women to walk down the aisle with faith in their hearts.
"It's not," I say gently, taking her hands. "You're just scared because it matters."
She nods, tears pooling. I guide her to the chair, talk her through breathing, remind her of why she chose today, chose him. I do my job well. Too well.
Because while I help her believe in love, I quietly step away from it.
The ceremony begins thirty minutes later. I stand at the back as the doors open, the music swells, and the bride walks toward the man waiting for her with tears in his eyes. The room holds its breath.
I don't.
I've seen this too many times.
Still, something shifts in my chest as I watch them exchange vows. As the groom's voice cracks. As the bride laughs through her tears.
I look away before it gets to me.
That's when I notice him.
He's standing near the side aisle, tall, composed, dressed in a charcoal suit that fits like it was made for him. He isn't looking at the bride or the groom.
He's looking at me.
Our eyes meet, and for half a second, the world narrows.
There's nothing dramatic about his expression—no bold smile, no obvious interest. Just quiet curiosity. Intentional. Like he's really seeing me.
I break eye contact first, my heart doing something strange and unnecessary.
I don't know his name.
I don't know why he's here.
And I definitely don't know why the thought of him unsettles me.
All I know is this:
I wasn't looking for anyone.
And somehow, that's exactly when he appeared.