The march started playing, and with every single note you are slipping away from me a little bit more. Yet I can only sit here quietly, on the seat you designated for me—right at the front row.

It feels like a torture.

To see you, standing only a few feet away, wearing your best tuxedo. To see you, avoiding my gaze, your fingers trembling ever so slightly. To see you… Getting away.

Inside my wretched imagination, I’m extending my hand, begging you to take it, to run away with me. And yet, I sit here like a statue—even though it hurts to let you go.

The whispers from the people around are static, incomprehensible noises ringing in my ears. All the decorations, and the flowers, and the people dressed in their best outfits are a big messy blur. The Wagner’s melody playing on the piano stabs my heart more painfully than knives ever could. The woman walking down the aisle in her beautiful white dress is nothing but a ghost.

In all my senses, there is only you. Like always, I find myself looking at you—your fair skin, the pretty lips I could never taste again. If I let you go, would you please let me see your loving smile once more? Because I want to remember it, even after I let you go, even if it would hurt when you refuse to show it to me anymore.

But you stand there—a ghost of smile on your lips, the dimmed light in your eyes as you stare at somebody else.

I bow my head because I can’t stand it. Holding back tears as I recall the days we went through, the laughter and the fights, the time we held on together and the moment we both let go. If I beg you, right here and right now, can things go back to how they were? If I kneel in front of you, pleading for you to take me back, will you want the same? If I shout, at the moment the priest ask if there is any objection, will you say that I am the one you love?

Please Subscribe to read the full chapter