Chapter 3: The Dress That No Longer Belonged to Love
I didn’t go back to the altar.
Instead, I went home.
Still in the wedding dress.
My mother tried to touch my shoulder, but I stepped away. Not out of anger—out of clarity.
That dress suddenly felt чуж. Like it belonged to someone who still believed in promises.
I walked into my room and looked at myself in the mirror.
White lace. Perfect makeup. A bride who had never become a wife.
Then I took off the veil.
Folded it carefully.
And placed it on the bed like something sacred that had died.
My phone lit up again.
His name.
I didn’t answer.
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Because now I understood something simple:
Some endings don’t need conversations. They just need silence.
