"To our dearest Elena,
We would be honored by your presence at our wedding.
May this day mark not just a new beginning for us, but peace for the past we once shared."
—Michael & Clara
The first thing I felt when I read the wedding invitation…
wasn't anger.
Wasn't heartbreak.
It was something far quieter, and much heavier—
A kind of shame that settled in my bones.
Or maybe… just a dull, pathetic ache for the years I'd wasted trying to be enough.
I couldn't even blame him.
No, it wasn't the fact that my ex-fiancé had personally handed me the invitation to his wedding—
To the woman he met three weeks after our breakup.
It wasn't even that she was objectively prettier, came from a better family, and held a more prestigious job.
And definitely not that he had always been considered "the catch" in our relationship.
No.
What really broke me was the realization that I'd spent years chasing love like a fool.
Begging it to stay.
Twisting myself into someone loveable, hoping—desperately—that if I was good enough, someone would choose me and stay.
But none of them ever did.
I'd compromised, adapted, shrunk, reshaped—just to make someone stay.
To make anyone stay.
But all of them left anyway.
And maybe that meant the problem was me all along.
I probably should've laughed bitterly in his face. Or snapped back something cruel and cutting.
But instead… I just stared blankly at the card in my hands.
Not sad.
Not even angry.
Just… numb.
Because somewhere deep down, I wasn't mourning him anymore.
The real question that echoed in my chest was:
Had I ever truly loved? Had I ever truly been loved in return?
I just kept staring at the card in my hands, letting the words blur as my chest tightened.
It didn't hurt because of him.
It hurt because maybe—just maybe—I'd never been truly loved at all.
"…Elena?"
His voice snapped me out of it. Impatient, like I was the one being difficult.
"Did you hear me? We'd love to have you there. No hard feelings. I want to start this next chapter with a clean conscience. Think of it as… closure—for both of us."
Closure?
What a convenient word.
I could've scoffed.
But I didn't even have the strength for sarcasm.
So I just kept staring.
I didn't answer. Just stared.
"I don't want any resentment between us," he added, as if he were bestowing a blessing.
"I think ending things peacefully honors what we once had."
His voice was flat. Hollow.
Did he even know what he was saying?
He sighed. "You were always like this. Distant. Hard to reach. You tried so hard to make love work, but you were never really init, were you?"
I nearly laughed.
Did he even realize it was he who left?
Who vanished without a word?
"Oh—and of course, you can bring someone," he said, with a tone that didn't bother to hide its meaning.
He didn't say it out loud, but he didn't have to.
I wasn't seeing anyone.
Haven't in a long time.
That dig was subtle, but precise—just enough to sting.
It shook me out of the memories swirling around my head.
"…Is that all?" I asked, voice distant. Disconnected.
He exhaled sharply. I knew that sigh.
"That's what I meant," he said, almost like scolding me.
"You were always like that in our relationship. Detached. Like you were never really present.
But you still tried too hard to make people stay…"
A pause.
"…You haven't changed."
He forced a half-smile.
"I just thought… a few of the guests at the wedding—good jobs, stable lives—might be interested in meeting someone like you."
I stopped listening.
There was no point.
Why had I ever dated him?
We met in college, I think.
It might've been infatuation. Or maybe he just showed interest first.
I honestly couldn't remember anymore.
And really… none of it mattered now.
Just another failed relationship in a long, crumbling trail of them.
Another disappointment.
Another echo of the hope I used to carry—
That stupid, soft dream of love I once believed in.
It had long since rotted away, turned into something cold.
A chill that crept down my spine when I wasn't looking.
My girlhood dream, now a private trauma.
At some point, the hope I carried turned into a cold, heavy thing.
My romantic dreams—once soft and golden—now felt like a cruel joke.
Something like a summer drizzle,
that turned into a quiet, endless storm.