**A Minute Before the Wedding**
“Do you think I’m a joke?” Emily shouted, clutching her bouquet so tightly the stems creaked. “Are you mocking me?”
“Just calm down,” Oliver said, adjusting his shirt collar in the mirror with infuriating calm. “I’m being honest. Better now than later.”
“*Now*? *Now*? Twenty minutes before the ceremony, you tell me you’re ‘not sure’?” Her laugh was sharp, tears burning behind her eyes. “Are you even thinking straight?”
“What, you’d rather I go out there, lie through my teeth, smile for the photos, and spend the rest of my life miserable? I’m not made of stone.”
“And I am?” She stepped closer, arm jerking as if to strike, then stopped. “I spent *three months* picking this dress. Mum saved for *half a year* for the reception. We’ve got guests coming from all over the country, Oliver! Your parents flew in from Manchester! Mine from Bristol! And you—you just drop this on me?”
“I can’t do it,” he muttered, staring at the floor. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“What’s *wrong*, then? Is it me? Tell me! Is it my teeth? Did I humiliate you? Was I not ‘compromising enough’ when you quit your third job in a row? Or did I want kids too soon? *What?* Give me one real answer, not this pathetic ‘I can’t’!”
He sank onto a chair, silent.
She stood over him, fists clenched in the lace of her dress, face hot with rage and shame. Beyond the door, footsteps rushed, voices called for the photographer. Music played—like something out of a film. Not a romance. A betrayal.
“You know,” Emily said, voice hollow, “even now, part of me still thinks you’re just scared. That any second, you’ll snap out of it, look me in the eye, and say you’re an idiot—and we’ll walk out there together.”
Oliver lifted his gaze. Held it. Then slowly shook his head.
She nodded once, straightened her shoulders, and walked out. Past the stunned bridesmaids, past the open doors to the hall, past the receptionist frantically dialling someone. Outside, the air was thick but sharp. She sucked it in like she could swallow the hurt. Tossed the bouquet onto a bench, fished a cigarette from her purse. She didn’t smoke. Today, she didn’t care.
“Em! Where are you going?” Her best friend, Charlotte, caught up to her. “What happened?”
Emily turned. Dry-eyed. Face like stone.
“Home.”
“What about the wedding?”
“There isn’t one.”
Charlotte gasped. “You’re joking.”
“I thought he was too. Turns out he’s deadly serious. He’s ‘not sure.’ Needs ‘time to think.’ Meanwhile, I get to pick up the pieces.”
Charlotte grabbed her arm. “Wait—you’re just *leaving*? The guests are here, everything’s paid for! What if he changes his mind?”
“Char, if a man can ditch a woman in a wedding dress a minute before the vows, he’s *made up his mind*. He just waited too long to say it.”
“Maybe talk to his dad? He always liked you.”
“No. I won’t beg.”
Emily kept walking. The train of her dress dragged on the pavement. Strangers stared. Some smiled, some filmed on their phones. She didn’t care. At a corner shop, she bought a can of cider. Sat on the kerb. Undid the corset ties at her back. Breathed.
“Done. Over.”
Footsteps approached. She braced for a guest, or her mother—but it was Oliver’s younger brother, Jack.
“Why are you sitting here?” he asked softly.
“Celebrating my freedom. You?”
“He’s an idiot. I don’t know what’s in his head, but it’s rotten. Really rotten.”
“That’s putting it nicely.”
Jack sat beside her. Silence.
“He said something a few days ago. That it all felt too fast, that he was scared he couldn’t… handle it. I thought it was just cold feet. Like all blokes get. But *this*…”
“Doesn’t matter. Let him live how he wants. I know one thing now—better alone than with someone who can’t keep his word.”
She paused. Then, abruptly:
“Tell me the truth. Did you ever think we were wrong together?”
Jack huffed a laugh. “Opposite. Always thought he was punching above his weight. You were… tougher. Held everything together. Sometimes I wondered if he was *holding you back*.”
Emily nodded. Looked up. The wind had turned cooler; thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Go back, Jack. Tell them I’m not coming. Let them enjoy the free bar.”
He stood. Hesitated. Then gently kissed her cheek.
“You’re brilliant. Don’t let this break you.”
She said nothing. Just watched him leave.
An hour later, she called a taxi. At home, she shoved the dress into the wardrobe. Stood under the shower until her skin burned. Not crying. Just empty.
Her mum arrived at dinner. No words—just a pot of chicken soup on the table.
“He called,” she said eventually.
“Don’t answer.”
“I didn’t.”
Emily picked at her food.
“Are you angry?” her mum murmured.
“Not angry. Just… full of rage with nowhere to put it. Like a kettle boiling dry.”
“That’s not rage, love. That’s hurt.”
“No, Mum. It’s *rage*. For the dress. For the dreams. For standing there like a fool, begging a man to say *one damn thing* that made sense.”
Her mum nodded. “It’ll pass.”
“I know. Just not yet.”
“Go somewhere. Reset.”
“I will.”
“I’m proud of you. For walking away with your head up.”
Emily hugged her tight. “Thanks.”
“Rest. And never look back. No calls. No explanations. It’s all clear enough.”
That night, she let herself cry. Just a little. Just to let go.
The next morning, she went to work. Colleagues glanced with pity but said nothing. *Good.* Silence beat hollow sympathy.
A week later, she drained the wedding fund, booked a train to Edinburgh, and left.
She walked cobbled streets, stared at the sea, sat in cafés with books. Once, she saw a groom kiss his bride outside St Giles’. Her heart lurched—but she smiled.
Back home, she dry-cleaned the dress. Donated it.
Blocked Oliver’s number. Deleted his emails.
Months later, she met Daniel. Rainy bus stop. One umbrella. Coffee. A film. Sunday markets. She didn’t overthink it—just lived.
One summer evening, on a train to the countryside, he said:
“You’re like… life knocked you about, but didn’t knock you *down*. You’re strong.”
She looked at him and thought, *Maybe all that pain led me here.*
She smiled. The train rattled; he lightly took her hand—not possessively, just asking, *Is this okay?* She didn’t pull away.
They married quietly. Back garden. Vinyl records. A homemade cake. Her dress was simple. *Breathable.*
“Don’t run off, yeah?” Daniel whispered as they walked to the registry office.
“Even if you chicken out, I’m dragging you in,” she laughed.
He didn’t chicken out. Not then. Not ever.
Sometimes, she’d wake before him and watch him sleep. First with doubt—*Will this vanish too?* Then with quiet wonder. He left towels on the floor, mugs on the sill, mixed up her books. And she loved it.
A year later, their daughter was born. Violet. Daniel cried at the birth. Brought balloons to the hospital.
At home, Emily cradled her and whispered, “Now everything’s as it should be.”
Years later, she bumped into Oliver. A pharmacy queue. He glanced up—*older, tired, no ring*.
“You look well,” he said.
“I’m happy,” she replied.
A pause.
“That day… before the wedding. I didn’t know how to say it. Everything was foggy.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” she said. “What was meant to happen, happened. And… thank you.”
He blinked. “For what?”
“For leaving. It hurt—but it was right. Without you, I wouldn’t have found *me*. And now? I’m exactly who I’m meant to be.”
She took her receipt. Outside, Daniel waited, holding Violet’s hand.
“Got everything?” he asked.
“Everything.”
She took Violet’s other hand, and they walked on—past blooming trees,As they turned the corner, Emily realized the past was finally just that—a shadow behind her, fading into the light of the life she’d built.