𝘼𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙋𝙊𝙑:
I exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the bouquet in my hands as the soft hum of wedding music filled the air. The line of bridesmaids in front of me stepped forward one by one, each movement bringing me closer to the aisle, to the rows of guests, to the moment I'd been anticipating and dreading all afternoon.

It wasn't that I wasn't happy to be here. I was. The bride was one of my closest friends, and today was meant to be all about her. But the second I saw the seating chart earlier, my heart had stuttered in my chest.

Because his name was there.

Chris Dixon.

I hadn't seen him in over a decade, not since I moved away in Year 8. One day, we were inseparable racing across the school field, arguing over football, laughing until our stomachs hurt. And then, suddenly, I was gone. No warning, no goodbye. Just... gone.

And now, he was here.

I stepped into the aisle, forcing my expression to stay neutral as my eyes instinctively flickered toward the crowd toward him.

And there he was.

Sitting near the front, suit crisp, jaw tense, eyes locked onto me like he wasn't sure if he believed what he was seeing.

I felt the breath leave my lungs.

He looked... different. Older, obviously. More mature, broader, like time had sharpened the features of the boy I once knew. But something about him was still Chris. The same sharp gaze, the same familiar way his lips pressed together when he was lost in thought, the way his fingers twitched against his knee like he was resisting the urge to react.

I forced my eyes forward, keeping my steps steady, my expression unreadable. I couldn't let myself stare. Couldn't let myself get lost in old memories, not when this was the first time I was seeing him in years.

Did he recognize me?

Would he even care?

I walked past him, my heart hammering, refusing to steal another glance. But the moment I reached the front of the room, standing in place with the other bridesmaids, I felt the weight of his stare still on me.

Chris Dixon had seen me.

And for the first time in years, I wondered if he still thought about me the way I thought about him.

By the time the reception was in full swing, the initial shock of seeing Chris had settled into a slow, steady hum in my chest.

The venue was buzzing with laughter and conversation. Music played, people danced, and drinks flowed easily. It was the perfect kind of celebration—the kind where everyone was caught up in the moment, happy and carefree.

Except I wasn't.

Because across the room, sitting at the bar, was him.

Chris.

And I wasn't sure what to do about it.

He looked good. Annoyingly good. Sitting there with a whiskey in hand, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his gaze scanning the room like he wasn't paying attention to anything in particular. But every so often, his eyes found me.

The first time, it was fleeting so quick I almost convinced myself I imagined it.

The second time, it lingered just a little longer.

The third time, I knew.

He knew who I was.

And yet, neither of us moved.

I wasn't sure what I was waiting for. Maybe for him to come over, to say something, to acknowledge that I was standing here just like he was standing there, and that we used to be so much more than strangers passing glances across a crowded room.

But he didn't.

And neither did I.

So instead, we stayed in this unspoken game both aware of each other, both refusing to make the first move.

Maybe it was hesitation.

Maybe it was fear.

Or maybe, after all these years, neither of us was quite ready for what would happen when we finally spoke.

Not yet.