Everything was there. The fake smiles, the feigned interest, the insincere laughter. I could see everything. So, I offer this question to you: does he know?

Does he know that you were uncomfortable in that cocktail dress that had been pulled low just above your cleavage? Does he know that you weren’t in the mood to entertain guests at a party that wasn’t really meant for her? And it was your engagement party. I could see that you weren’t expecting to not fit in at the party that had been organised all for you and the joyous celebration of two lovers.

Does he know how you hold yourself at night, hugging your knees and praying for a resolution? Does he know that you happened to kiss the cross at the altar when you prayed? Does he know that before you were whole this way, you had been broken before?

Was he there to hold you when you couldn’t take it anymore? Was he there to hold your hand and pull the covers over you when you fell asleep crying? Was he there to place his hand on the small of your back and all your anxiety would have faded away?

So, why was he the one you chose? Then, why was he the one you chose to love?

He holds you close, whispering things in your ear. For a moment, the fake smiles and laughter faded away into shy giggles and genuine laughter. He touches your hand ever so gently, tracing the spot I used to trace. You shudder slightly, but that smile remains intact. Your fingers reached up to touch his face, gently the slight stubble there.

Sometime ago, we had planned this. Sometime ago, we had wanted to decide what kind of dresses we were going to wear, who we were going to invite. Nowadays, I wonder why the invitation card was in my letterbox. Maybe the postman had sent it to the wrong address, maybe there was another Jessica Jung living in the same neighbourhood. It took a lot to open the letter, more than a letter cutter and a pair of fumbling hands. It was confirmation to my denial.

For a few seconds, I place my thumb over his name and think of it as my name. I brought the semi-translucent card closer to my face, catching a whiff of your perfume. It was fortunate that he didn’t spray his cologne all over it instead. A small thought sparked in me.

Maybe you remembered?

No, that couldn’t be. If you did, my card wouldn’t be mailed here. You had forgotten. I never expected anything more. You had forgotten how I held you in my arms as you wept, you had forgotten how I kissed you tenderly when you cried and how my fingers would fix your hair when it was messed up. I felt cheated, somehow. I sat through everything, before he came in and took you away when I had been the one to have made you whole again.

What was it?

What made him so different from me? I wished you had given me an answer to that question. What made him so much better than when with him, I didn’t exist anymore? And despite all this, all you gave me was an invitation card to an engagement party. It wasn’t your handwriting on the envelope, it was his instead. Maybe you didn’t have enough to write my name?

I set the envelope on the kitchen counter, hoping I wouldn’t remember, hoping I would wake up tomorrow and I wouldn’t find it there anymore. Maybe, if I had forgotten completely, that would give me enough reason to be absent at your engagement party. It didn’t matter if I did come, anyway. It wouldn’t make a difference.

Why are you doing this to me?

Was it to show me how much better you’ve become? Was it to prove to me that you were doing fine without me? Are you hoping for me to get down onto my knees and beg shamelessly for you? Are you hoping that I would punch his face when I saw him staring at you? Are you trying to show me that my love was inferior to his? That my kisses were no better than his? That my hugs were nowhere near as homey as his? Are you going to show me that I was too late?

You deserve no less. I believe that. That belief is what kept me from tearing his heart from his chest. That belief is what kept me from tearing up the invitation card and setting it on fire. I promised myself that I would be indifferent to you.

Yet, here I was, staring at the both of you. But I saw that it wasn’t to prove anything to me anymore. You truly are happy. I’ve never seen you smile that wide before. But that was probably because I’ve always seen you frowning or bawling your eyes out.

I used to tell myself, every night, that I loved you. And that was the reason why I didn’t just leave you crying by the streets. I used to tell myself, as I hugged you tightly, that I loved you more than I could.

You stare at me from afar and I realise that I have been spacing out, staring at the pale pink and blue balloons tied to the metal frame at the entrance. I had a sudden urge to pop those balloons and trample on the white, grand tablecloths. I wanted to drain every single glass of wine or alcohol there was in this room. I wanted to swipe the glasses off the table and then laugh. Laugh because I had lost; laugh because the one I truly loved had found someone better than me, someone who could give her everything she wanted. That someone wasn’t me.

Your expression was unreadable and I felt bare, . I stare back at you for a while before your lips break into a smile again, a small one, one out of tender familiarity more than affection, one that broke my already broken heart. I try hard to smile back, even if it came off as a mangled, teary mess.

I was the first one to leave that night, but the last to congratulate her. I shook hands with him and saw that prideful smile he shot down at you. It wasn’t me. Damn it, it wasn’t me. It just wasn’t me.

I laughed bitterly, knowing that I wouldn’t have to look down at her if that had been me because we were the same height, knowing that I didn’t have to lean down and you didn’t have to tiptoe to kiss. Distracted, I felt him squeeze my hand, probably by accident. The squeeze sent gentle waves of memories to caress my mind. It was gentle, soft, but I felt as if my fingers had been broken and my knuckles had been crushed. But then I watched you smile, and I told myself:

I can’t love you more than this.