I deleted Nancy’s Facebook back in college. But Bryson’s? I could never bring myself to do it.
I opened our chat box—a space untouched for years, frozen in time. The last message from him was from three years ago.
I stared at the empty thread for a long moment before typing.
Bryson, don’t pretend to be dead.
The words felt sharp, almost cruel, but I hit send anyway.
For years, he hadn’t replied to a single message. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.
I’d tried asking about him before, but our mutual friends didn’t know much. All they could tell me was that he had gone abroad.
See? That was Bryson—rational and calculated. He didn’t just leave me; he left everyone behind for the sake of his career.
I typed a new message: Congratulations.
It felt like a stab to my own chest, but I sent it.
Quickly, I exited the chat, unwilling to linger.
He hasn’t replied in years. Why would this time be any different?
But this time, I wasn’t demanding, wasn’t questioning him. Just congratulating him on his marriage. Surely, he’d reply.
The thought clung to me, distracting me all afternoon.
Every time my phone buzzed, my heart leapt, and I’d imagine his reply. Would it be a polite thank you? Or maybe even an apologetic sorry?
Ding dong.
The sound broke my thoughts. My heart raced, my grip on the pen tightening until my knuckles turned white.
It was almost time to clock out. Two hours had passed since I sent the message.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic beating in my chest, and reached for my phone.
When I saw the name on the notification, the world seemed to still.
It wasn’t Bryson.
It was my mother.
She's urging me to get married again.
"Sienna, there's a single man at your Aunt Amelie's place. When will you come back to meet him?"
My mother has been relentless over the years, always pushing me to settle down. I’ve avoided so many of her calls, fearing yet another lecture about marriage.
I muttered some half-hearted reply, just enough to end the conversation, and refocused on the road.
While waiting at a red light, my phone buzzed again.
This time, it was an unfamiliar number.
I answered absentmindedly, eyes on the light.
"Sienna."
The voice on the other end froze me.
It was Nancy.
Are they afraid I won’t show up to their wedding? Did they send her to personally make sure I attend?
I smiled bitterly, my hands tightening around the phone.
"Nancy."
Her name felt like fire on my tongue, and I spoke it softly, almost hesitantly.
She chuckled lightly, and then I heard it—another voice in the background.
"Okay, I'll go wash, little ancestor," the man said, his tone indulgent, tender.
Bryson.
So gentle, so full of affection.
It was undeniable. He truly loved her.
My nails dug into my palm, the pain grounding me as anger swelled. My voice came out cold.
"Is there something you need? If not, I’m busy."
"I wanted to ask if you received the invitation," she said.
I could almost picture her expression—proud, smug, maybe even a little triumphant.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened, but I forced a smile, even though she couldn’t see it.
"I did," I said, my tone light but firm. "The day after tomorrow, right? Don’t worry, I’ll be there."
Nancy let out a soft laugh, almost sweet, but it cut through me like a blade.
"Good. Sienna, you must come."
Oh, I’ll be there.
I want to see Bryson’s face when he sees me.
Will there be guilt? Or will he just smile politely, say, "Sienna, long time no see," like I’m nothing more than an old friend?
A horn blared behind me, snapping me back to reality. I threw the phone onto the passenger seat, slammed my foot on the accelerator, and drove off.
I wanted to leave this suffocating feeling on the road behind me, but it clung to me, heavy and relentless.
When I got home, I took out the invitation. It was thick, luxurious, the kind that spoke of celebration and joy.
Bright red—festive and mocking.
Once, the man behind this invitation and I talked endlessly about wedding plans. We had debated over every detail, even the wording of an invitation.
But that discussion never reached a conclusion.
I let out a bitter laugh, resentment curling in my chest.
I should blame him.
If it weren’t for his promise to “wait for him,” I wouldn’t have wasted a decade of my life.
If he hadn’t spoken so earnestly, so confidently, I wouldn’t have let him become my obsession.
Ten years. He wasted ten years of my life.
And in the end, all I got was news of his wedding to Nancy.
Not even a reply to my messages.
Maybe it’s the hatred. Maybe it’s the betrayal. But my hands trembled as I stared at that invitation.
I wanted to tear it apart, shred it into pieces, but the paper was too thick. My hands turned red from the effort, but the invitation remained intact.
Stubborn, unyielding, just like my foolish persistence.
It felt like the universe was mocking me.
