I glanced down at the lace on the skirt—intricate, delicate—much like the tangled seven-year relationship between Frederick and me.
This dress had taken three months to customize, was air-freighted, and cost six figures.
Frederick hadn’t even flinched when he swiped his card.
He thought money could solve everything—even my emotions.
"Help me take this off," the sales assistant said, surprised.
"Aren’t you going to order it?"
"It doesn’t fit."
I turned, staring at the expressionless woman in the mirror.
"It doesn’t fit anywhere." The foundation around my eyes was caked, the lipstick too pink.
I’m clearly not young anymore, but I still can’t accept it.
Just like I can’t accept that Frederick no longer loves me.
I picked up my bag, opened the door, and walked out.
I didn’t take a taxi. I walked slowly, along every inch of the streets Frederick and I once walked together.
Shop windows displayed the latest seasonal styles.
Young couples walked hand in hand.
The sweet scent of popcorn and roasted sweet potatoes filled the air.
Today is May 20th.
How ironic.
My phone vibrated in my bag.
A message from Ryan Jacobs: ["I heard you went to try on wedding dresses? How was it? Did you stun everyone?"]