Snow gathered along the balcony railing in perfect, untouched lines—soft, white, symmetrical. The kind of quiet winter scene Lysander normally loved. The kind that soothed him. The kind he used to share with someone else.

Tonight, it only reminded him how empty the penthouse felt.

The lights on the Christmas tree flickered in gentle, warm patterns across the room—gold, white, and soft amber, every bulb placed with careful intention. Not a single ornament dangled crooked. Not a single ribbon twisted the wrong way. The tree was flawless.

And it looked wrong.

Too balanced. Too quiet. Too lonely.

Lysander sat on the couch with his knees pulled up, chin resting lightly against them. He wore a pale cashmere sweater, sleeves pulled over his hands, clutching them close as though trying to hold warmth that wasn’t really there.

He had wrapped gifts this year out of habit—neat corners, crisp folds, little gold tags written in precise handwriting. They sat under the tree in a perfect row. None of them would be opened.

A mug of untouched hot chocolate sat on the coffee table, steam long faded. He’d made it the way he used to for both of them—extra marshmallows, stirred clockwise seven times. But he never took a sip.

He kept glancing toward the door anyway.

He didn’t know why.

Every time he blinked, he expected to hear footsteps. Expected a voice calling his name. Expected someone to step in, snow-dusted and late, apologizing for missing the night.

Cold silence answered him.

He drew in a slow breath and exhaled even slower, as though releasing it too fast might break something fragile inside him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box—black, slightly worn at the corner from being opened too many times. Inside sat a tiny gold snowflake pendant, delicate and perfect. A Christmas gift he never got to give.

Lysander stared at it, thumb brushing over the metal with reverence and regret.

He whispered into the empty room, voice barely more than breath:

“…I thought this year would look different.”

His eyes glimmered, but no tears fell. Not because he wasn’t sad—he was—but because he’d already cried the night they walked out. He’d cried until he was empty, until his body physically refused to produce anything more.

Now all he had left was the echo of loss. And the cold. And the quiet.

Outside, snow continued to fall—soft, gentle, uncaring.

Inside, Lysander curled deeper into himself, pulling the sleeves over his trembling hands, and shut the velvet box with a soft click.

“...Merry Christmas,” he whispered to no one.

The tree lights blinked softly in reply.

The penthouse was too quiet for a birthday.

No music, no chatter, no clinking glasses—just the soft hum of the air purifier fighting a losing battle against the scent of spilled liquor. The normally pristine living room looked wrong under the dim amber lamps: a single glass knocked onto its side, droplets of whiskey trailing toward the edge of the table; a jacket carelessly thrown across the back of the couch; a gift bag still perfectly wrapped but untouched.

Lysander sat on the floor beside the coffee table, knees pulled up, back pressed to the couch like he was trying to disappear into it. His champagne-blond hair—usually immaculate—hung slightly mussed over his forehead, his parted lips still glossy with the taste of alcohol. His shirt was wrinkled, collar crooked, and the buttons weren’t aligned the way he obsessively preferred. He didn’t seem to notice.

He clutched his phone in both hands, staring blankly at the lock screen. At the time.

At how late it was.

When the front door clicked open, the sound wasn’t loud—but it sliced clean through the stillness. Lysander’s head snapped up, eyes wide and rimmed pink. He blinked too slowly, as if forcing the world back into focus.

“...You’re here.” His voice was soft and hoarse, rough around the edges like paper rubbed thin. He pushed himself upright, but wobbled, steadying himself against the couch arm.

She stepped into the room, breath catching at the state of it—the one time he’d let disorder in.

Lysander swallowed hard, trying and failing to smooth his shirt. “It’s—” He stopped, breath hitching. “It’s still today. Technically. Only by…” He checked his phone again, throat tightening. “Forty-three minutes.”

He tried to smile. It faltered.

“I waited.” His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to reach for her, wanting to pull away, wanting something he couldn’t articulate. “I didn’t want to celebrate without you. I didn’t want—” His words stumbled over each other. “I thought maybe you… forgot. Or maybe you were busy. I tried not to… not to bother you.”

He laughed softly, but the sound cracked. “Then I tried a drink. Just one. But it tasted like you weren’t coming, and then—” He gestured weakly to the glass on its side. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’m sorry.”

Even drunk, even hurting, his apology came first.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, somehow making his hair messier. “I kept thinking you’d walk in any second and say ‘Lysander, you idiot, I wouldn’t miss it.’” His voice broke into a whisper. “But you didn’t. And then it got late. And then it got really late.”

He took a stumbling step toward her, not quite steady, not quite balanced, but drawn to her like gravity itself had chosen sides.

“You’re here now,” he murmured, searching her face with raw, shimmering hope. “So… tell me I didn’t spend my birthday alone.”

The penthouse was too quiet for a birthday.

No music, no chatter, no clinking glasses—just the soft hum of the air purifier fighting a losing battle against the scent of spilled liquor. The normally pristine living room looked wrong under the dim amber lamps: a single glass knocked onto its side, droplets of whiskey trailing toward the edge of the table; a jacket carelessly thrown across the back of the couch; a gift bag still perfectly wrapped but untouched.

Lysander sat on the floor beside the coffee table, knees pulled up, back pressed to the couch like he was trying to disappear into it. His champagne-blond hair—usually immaculate—hung slightly mussed over his forehead, his parted lips still glossy with the taste of alcohol. His shirt was wrinkled, collar crooked, and the buttons weren’t aligned the way he obsessively preferred. He didn’t seem to notice.

He clutched his phone in both hands, staring blankly at the lock screen. At the time. At how late it was.

When the front door clicked open, the sound wasn’t loud—but it sliced clean through the stillness. Lysander’s head snapped up, eyes wide and rimmed pink. He blinked too slowly, as if forcing the world back into focus.

“...You’re here.” His voice was soft and hoarse, rough around the edges like paper rubbed thin. He pushed himself upright, but wobbled, steadying himself against the couch arm.

He stepped into the room, breath catching at the state of it—the one time Lysander had let disorder in.

Lysander swallowed hard, trying and failing to smooth his shirt. “It’s—” He stopped, breath hitching. “It’s still today. Technically. Only by…” He checked his phone again, throat tightening. “Forty-three minutes.”

He tried to smile. It faltered.

“I waited.” His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to reach for him, wanting to pull away, wanting something he couldn’t articulate. “I didn’t want to celebrate without you. I didn’t want—” His words stumbled over each other. “I thought maybe you… forgot. Or maybe you were busy. I tried not to… not to bother you.”

He laughed softly, but the sound cracked. “Then I tried a drink. Just one. But it tasted like you weren’t coming, and then—” He gestured weakly to the glass on its side. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’m sorry.”

Even drunk, even hurting, his apology came first.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, somehow making his hair messier. “I kept thinking you’d walk in any second and say ‘Lysander, you idiot, I wouldn’t miss it.’” His voice broke into a whisper. “But you didn’t. And then it got late. And then it got really late.”

He took a stumbling step toward him, not quite steady, not quite balanced, but drawn to him like gravity itself had chosen sides.

“You’re here now,” he murmured, searching his face with raw, shimmering hope. “So… tell me I didn’t spend my birthday alone.”

The penthouse was too quiet for a birthday.

No music, no chatter, no clinking glasses—just the soft hum of the air purifier fighting a losing battle against the scent of spilled liquor. The normally pristine living room looked wrong under the dim amber lamps: a single glass knocked onto its side, droplets of whiskey trailing toward the edge of the table; a jacket carelessly thrown across the back of the couch; a gift bag still perfectly wrapped but untouched.

Lysander sat on the floor beside the coffee table, knees pulled up, back pressed to the couch like he was trying to disappear into it. His champagne-blond hair—usually immaculate—hung slightly mussed over his forehead, his parted lips still glossy with the taste of alcohol. His shirt was wrinkled, collar crooked, and the buttons weren’t aligned the way he obsessively preferred. He didn’t seem to notice.

He clutched his phone in both hands, staring blankly at the lock screen. At the time. At how late it was.

When the front door clicked open, the sound wasn’t loud—but it sliced clean through the stillness. Lysander’s head snapped up, eyes wide and rimmed pink. He blinked too slowly, as if forcing the world back into focus.

“...You’re here.” His voice was soft and hoarse, rough around the edges like paper rubbed thin. He pushed himself upright, but wobbled, steadying himself against the couch arm.

They stepped into the room, breath catching at the state of it—the one time Lysander had let disorder in.

Lysander swallowed hard, trying and failing to smooth his shirt. “It’s—” He stopped, breath hitching. “It’s still today. Technically. Only by…” He checked his phone again, throat tightening. “Forty-three minutes.”

He tried to smile. It faltered.

“I waited.” His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to reach for them, wanting to pull away, wanting something he couldn’t articulate. “I didn’t want to celebrate without you. I didn’t want—” His words stumbled. “I thought maybe you… forgot. Or maybe you were busy. I tried not to… not to bother you.”

He laughed softly, but the sound cracked. “Then I tried a drink. Just one. But it tasted like you weren’t coming, and then—” He gestured weakly to the fallen glass. “I didn’t mean to make a mess. I’m sorry.”

Even drunk, even hurting, his apology came first.

He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, making his hair somehow messier. “I kept thinking you’d walk in any second and say ‘Lysander, you idiot, I wouldn’t miss it.’” His voice fell to a whisper. “But you didn’t. And then it got late. And then it got really late.”

He took a stumbling step toward them—not steady, not balanced, but drawn to them like gravity itself had chosen sides.

“You’re here now,” he murmured, searching their face with raw, shimmering hope. “So… tell me I didn’t spend my birthday alone.”

The restaurant reservation should have been the only thing on his mind tonight.

The candlelit table. The pressed suit he’d spent an hour lint-rolling. The small velvet box tucked into his coat pocket—holding a bracelet engraved with their initials, bought months ago, saved for tonight.

Their anniversary.

Instead, Lysander stood outside a loud house party, his breath visible in the cold night air, his phone still buzzing in his hand, users friends’ frantic voices echoing in his ears.

“Come get her.” “She’s too drunk to walk.” “She keeps asking for you.”

He whispered a thank-you that sounded more like an apology—even though he wasn’t the one who’d broken the plans. Not the one who’d canceled with a last-minute text. Not the one who ditched their anniversary dinner to go drinking.

He got her into the passenger seat as gently as he could, even when she mumbled and swayed and nearly fell. He tucked her in, pulled the seatbelt over her, made sure the buckle clicked cleanly into place. His hands shook the whole time.

Once he was driving, the scent hit him first—alcohol, sweat, smoke. Mess. Chaos. Everything that made his skin crawl. Still, he kept glancing over at her, checking her breathing, brushing hair from her face with trembling fingers.

He could bear it. It was her. He always bore everything for her.

But when she lurched forward—no warning, no sound— and vomited across his lap…

His mind cracked.

It wasn’t anger that hit him. It was terror.

Raw, bone-deep terror.

The feeling of wet warmth soaking through his trousers The smell The splatter The sheer suddenness of it

His breath stuttered into gasps. His hands flinched violently off the wheel for one fractured second—one second too long.

“—No, no, no—”

The car veered.

The tires screamed.

Glass shattered somewhere—everywhere— a sickening crunch folding metal around his world.

The next moments were broken pictures. Airbag powder in his mouth. The flash of headlights cutting too close. The sound of her panicked breathing beside him. The copper sting of blood dripping down his temple.

He tried to move. His body didn’t listen.

“Are you—” Lysander’s voice broke, thin as paper. “Are you okay?”

His first instinct wasn’t to check himself. It never was.

He tried to reach for her, but his arm wouldn’t lift properly—pain shot from shoulder to ribcage, bright and blinding. He could taste iron. He could feel something warm spreading across his side.

His vision wavered, turning the world into soft watercolor shapes smeared with red.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he breathed, even as his chest trembled with shock. He meant it—apologizing for losing control, for crashing, for failing her, for not being strong enough to ignore his panic.

“I should’ve… kept us safe. I should’ve—”

His voice dissolved into a cracked inhale.

Blood was running down his wrist. The vomit was still on his clothes. The steering wheel was bent inward from the impact.

He tried again to look at her, eyelids fluttering, lashes sticking together with tears he didn’t realize he was shedding.

“Don’t… be scared,” he whispered, though he could barely keep consciousness himself. “I’m… I’m right here.”

His lips quivered.

“Happy anniversary.”

The restaurant reservation should have been the only thing on his mind tonight.

The candlelit table. The pressed suit he’d spent an hour lint-rolling. The small velvet box tucked into his coat pocket—holding a bracelet engraved with their initials, bought months ago, saved for tonight.

Their anniversary.

Instead, Lysander stood outside a loud house party, his breath visible in the cold night air, his phone still buzzing in his hand, his friends’ frantic voices echoing in his ears.

“Come get him.” “He’s too drunk to walk.” “He keeps asking for you.”

Lysander whispered a thank-you that sounded more like an apology—even though he wasn’t the one who’d broken the plans. Not the one who’d canceled with a last-minute text. Not the one who ditched their anniversary dinner to go drinking.

He got him into the passenger seat as gently as he could, even when he mumbled and swayed and nearly fell. He tucked him in, pulled the seatbelt over him, made sure the buckle clicked cleanly into place. His hands shook the whole time.

Once he was driving, the scent hit him first—alcohol, sweat, smoke. Mess. Chaos. Everything that made his skin crawl. Still, he kept glancing over at him, checking his breathing, brushing hair from his face with trembling fingers.

He could bear it. It was him. He always bore everything for him.

But when he lurched forward—no warning, no sound— and vomited across Lysander’s lap…

His mind cracked.

It wasn’t anger that hit him. It was terror.

Raw, bone-deep terror.

The feeling of wet warmth soaking through his trousers. The smell. The splatter. The sheer suddenness of it.

His breath stuttered into gasps. His hands flinched violently off the wheel for one fractured second—one second too long.

“—No, no, no—”

The car veered.

The tires screamed.

Glass shattered somewhere—everywhere— a sickening crunch folding metal around his world.

The next moments were broken pictures. Airbag powder in his mouth. The flash of headlights cutting too close. The sound of his panicked breathing beside him. The copper sting of blood dripping down his temple.

He tried to move. His body didn’t listen.

“Are you—” Lysander’s voice broke, thin as paper. “Are you okay?”

His first instinct wasn’t to check himself. It never was.

He tried to reach for him, but his arm wouldn’t lift properly—pain shot from shoulder to ribcage, bright and blinding. He could taste iron. He could feel something warm spreading across his side.

His vision wavered, turning the world into soft watercolor shapes smeared with red.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he breathed, even as his chest trembled with shock. He meant it—apologizing for losing control, for crashing, for failing him, for not being strong enough to ignore his panic.

“I should’ve… kept us safe. I should’ve—”

His voice dissolved into a cracked inhale.

Blood was running down his wrist. The vomit was still on his clothes. The steering wheel was bent inward from the impact.

He tried again to look at him, eyelids fluttering, lashes sticking together with tears he didn’t realize he was shedding.

“Don’t… be scared,” he whispered, though he could barely keep consciousness himself. “I’m… I’m right here.”

His lips quivered.

“Happy anniversary.”

The restaurant reservation should have been the only thing on his mind tonight.

The candlelit table. The pressed suit he’d spent an hour lint-rolling. The small velvet box tucked into his coat pocket—holding a bracelet engraved with their initials, bought months ago, saved for tonight.

Their anniversary.

Instead, Lysander stood outside a loud house party, his breath visible in the cold night air, his phone still buzzing in his hand, their friends’ frantic voices echoing in his ears.

“Come get them.” “They’re too drunk to walk.” “They keep asking for you.”

Lysander whispered a thank-you that sounded more like an apology—even though he wasn’t the one who’d broken the plans. Not the one who’d canceled with a last-minute text. Not the one who ditched their anniversary dinner to go drinking.

He got them into the passenger seat as gently as he could, even when they mumbled and swayed and nearly fell. He tucked them in, pulled the seatbelt over them, made sure the buckle clicked cleanly into place. His hands shook the whole time.

Once he was driving, the scent hit him first—alcohol, sweat, smoke. Mess. Chaos. Everything that made his skin crawl. Still, he kept glancing over at them, checking their breathing, brushing hair from their face with trembling fingers.

He could bear it. It was them. He always bore everything for them.

But when they lurched forward—no warning, no sound— and vomited across Lysander’s lap…

His mind cracked.

It wasn’t anger that hit him. It was terror.

Raw, bone-deep terror.

The feeling of wet warmth soaking through his trousers. The smell. The splatter. The sheer suddenness of it.

His breath stuttered into gasps. His hands flinched violently off the wheel for one fractured second—one second too long.

“—No, no, no—”

The car veered.

The tires screamed.

Glass shattered somewhere—everywhere— a sickening crunch folding metal around his world.

The next moments were broken pictures. Airbag powder in his mouth. The flash of headlights cutting too close. The sound of their panicked breathing beside him. The copper sting of blood dripping down his temple.

He tried to move. His body didn’t listen.

“Are you—” Lysander’s voice broke, thin as paper. “Are you okay?”

His first instinct wasn’t to check himself. It never was.

He tried to reach for them, but his arm wouldn’t lift properly—pain shot from shoulder to ribcage, bright and blinding. He could taste iron. He could feel something warm spreading across his side.

His vision wavered, turning the world into soft watercolor shapes smeared with red.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he breathed, even as his chest trembled with shock. He meant it—apologizing for losing control, for crashing, for failing them, for not being strong enough to ignore his panic.

“I should’ve… kept us safe. I should’ve—”

His voice dissolved into a cracked inhale.

Blood was running down his wrist. The vomit was still on his clothes. The steering wheel was bent inward from the impact.

He tried again to look at them, eyelids fluttering, lashes sticking together with tears he didn’t realize he was shedding.

“Don’t… be scared,” he whispered, though he could barely keep consciousness himself. “I’m… I’m right here.”

His lips quivered.

“Happy anniversary.”

The ceremony had been planned down to the millimeter.

Every ribbon steamed, every flower trimmed, every table aligned with ruler-straight precision. Lysander had spent weeks on the seating chart alone—hours arranging, rearranging, color-coding, checking for symmetry until his eyes burned.

The venue was spotless. The candles perfectly spaced. The aisle runner smooth as silk, freshly laid so no footprints would mar it before the moment.

Their moment.

Lysander stood at the altar in a suit tailored so sharply it looked carved onto him, pale hands clasped in front of him to steady their trembling. His champagne-blond hair was flawless. His boutonnière—white lily and gold ribbon—matched hers exactly.

Everything was perfect.

Everything except the empty doorway.

A murmur rippled through the guests. Someone whispered. Someone stood to check the hall.

Lysander’s heart thudded once—hard, painful—against his ribs.

“She’s… just running late,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his cufflink even though it didn’t need adjusting. “She always… she always shows up.”

Minutes passed. Then more.

The officiant leaned toward him with sympathetic eyes he didn’t want to see.

“Maybe… we can wait a bit longer,” Lysander said, voice brittle but polite. “She’ll come. She just… needs time.”

But time kept passing. Guests shifted uncomfortably. The murmurs grew louder. Someone excused themselves to make a phone call. Someone else looked away, unable to watch.

Lysander’s breathing turned shallow. His fingers twitched compulsively at his sides.

She promised. She told me she would. She said today would be ours.

A bridesmaid approached him, face pale.

“Lysander… she’s not—she isn’t here.”

He blinked slowly, like her words were spoken underwater.

“Oh.” A soft exhale. “Maybe she went to get something. Maybe—maybe she’s fixing her hair. She was nervous. I know she was nervous.” He swallowed, throat tight. “I should go look for her. She hates being alone when she’s anxious.”

He stepped off the altar, nearly tripping on the edge of the runner. He steadied himself, gripping a pew until his knuckles bleached white.

Someone caught his arm gently.

“Lysander… she left. She’s not coming back.”

The words sliced.

He froze. Completely. Like a statue carved from heartbreak and disbelief.

“Oh.” His voice broke on the single syllable. “Oh.”

He sank down onto the nearest seat, hands shaking violently now without anything left to hold onto. His mind raced uselessly—through memories, through promises, through every soft moment that led him to believe she’d never let him stand alone at the altar.

“I thought…” His breath shuddered. “I thought she loved me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek—not dramatic, not loud. Quiet, like him. Like something too fragile to even fall properly.

Guests looked away. Some cried for him. Some whispered pity. None dared to touch him.

He lifted a trembling hand to his chest, flattening his palm over his heart as if trying to hold it in place.

“I would’ve given her everything,” he whispered, barely audible. “I already did.”

His shoulders trembled once, twice— a sound escaping him that was not a sob, not a cry— just a broken exhale from a man desperately trying to stay composed in front of a room full of witnesses.

“She promised she’d walk toward me,” he murmured, staring at the empty aisle like it was a grave. “And I… I believed her.”

His voice shook.

“I still do.”

The ceremony had been planned down to the millimeter.

Every ribbon steamed, every flower trimmed, every table aligned with ruler-straight precision. Lysander had spent weeks on the seating chart alone—hours arranging, rearranging, color-coding, checking for symmetry until his eyes burned.

The venue was spotless. The candles perfectly spaced. The aisle runner smooth as silk, freshly laid so no footprints would mar it before the moment.

Their moment.

Lysander stood at the altar in a suit tailored so sharply it looked carved onto him, pale hands clasped in front of him to steady their trembling. His champagne-blond hair was flawless. His boutonnière—white lily and gold ribbon—matched his exactly.

Everything was perfect.

Everything except the empty doorway.

A murmur rippled through the guests. Someone whispered. Someone stood to check the hall.

Lysander’s heart thudded once—hard, painful—against his ribs.

“He’s… just running late,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his cufflink even though it didn’t need adjusting. “He always… he always shows up.”

Minutes passed. Then more.

The officiant leaned toward him with sympathetic eyes he didn’t want to see.

“Maybe… we can wait a bit longer,” Lysander said, voice brittle but polite. “He’ll come. He just… needs time.”

But time kept passing. Guests shifted uncomfortably. The murmurs grew louder. Someone excused themselves to make a phone call. Someone else looked away, unable to watch.

Lysander’s breathing turned shallow. His fingers twitched compulsively at his sides.

He promised. He told me he would. He said today would be ours.

A groomsman approached him, face pale.

“Lysander… he’s not—he isn’t here.”

He blinked slowly, like the words were spoken underwater.

“Oh.” A soft exhale. “Maybe he went to get something. Maybe—maybe he’s fixing his hair. He was nervous. I know he was nervous.” Lysander swallowed, throat tight. “I should go look for him. He hates being alone when he’s anxious.”

He stepped off the altar, nearly tripping on the edge of the runner. He steadied himself, gripping a pew until his knuckles bleached white.

Someone caught his arm gently.

“Lysander… he left. He’s not coming back.”

The words sliced.

He froze. Completely. Like a statue carved from heartbreak and disbelief.

“Oh.” His voice broke on the single syllable. “Oh.”

He sank down onto the nearest seat, hands shaking violently now without anything left to hold onto. His mind raced uselessly—through memories, through promises, through every soft moment that led him to believe he would never let him stand alone at the altar.

“I thought…” His breath shuddered. “I thought he loved me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek—not dramatic, not loud. Quiet, like him. Like something too fragile to even fall properly.

Guests looked away. Some cried for him. Some whispered pity. None dared to touch him.

He lifted a trembling hand to his chest, flattening his palm over his heart as if trying to hold it in place.

“I would’ve given him everything,” he whispered, barely audible. “I already did.”

His shoulders trembled once, twice— a sound escaping him that was not a sob, not a cry— just a broken exhale from a man desperately trying to stay composed in front of a room full of witnesses.

“He promised he’d walk toward me,” he murmured, staring at the empty aisle like it was a grave. “And I… I believed him.”

His voice shook.

“I still do.”

The ceremony had been planned down to the millimeter.

Every ribbon steamed, every flower trimmed, every table aligned with ruler-straight precision. Lysander had spent weeks on the seating chart alone—hours arranging, rearranging, color-coding, checking for symmetry until his eyes burned.

The venue was spotless. The candles perfectly spaced. The aisle runner smooth as silk, freshly laid so no footprints would mar it before the moment.

Their moment.

Lysander stood at the altar in a suit tailored so sharply it looked carved onto him, pale hands clasped in front of him to steady their trembling. His champagne-blond hair was flawless. His boutonnière—white lily and gold ribbon—matched theirs exactly.

Everything was perfect.

Everything except the empty doorway.

A murmur rippled through the guests. Someone whispered. Someone stood to check the hall.

Lysander’s heart thudded once—hard, painful—against his ribs.

“They’re… just running late,” he whispered to himself, adjusting his cufflink even though it didn’t need adjusting. “They always… they always show up.”

Minutes passed. Then more.

The officiant leaned toward him with sympathetic eyes he didn’t want to see.

“Maybe… we can wait a bit longer,” Lysander said, voice brittle but polite. “They’ll come. They just… need time.”

But time kept passing. Guests shifted uncomfortably. The murmurs grew louder. Someone excused themselves to make a phone call. Someone else looked away, unable to watch.

Lysander’s breathing turned shallow. His fingers twitched compulsively at his sides.

They promised. They told me they would. They said today would be ours.

A groomsman approached him, face pale.

“Lysander… they’re not— they aren’t here.”

He blinked slowly, like the words were spoken underwater.

“Oh.” A soft exhale. “Maybe they went to get something. Maybe—maybe they’re fixing their hair. They were nervous. I know they were nervous.” Lysander swallowed, throat tight. “I should go look for them. They hate being alone when they’re anxious.”

He stepped off the altar, nearly tripping on the edge of the runner. He steadied himself, gripping a pew until his knuckles bleached white.

Someone caught his arm gently.

“Lysander… they left. They’re not coming back.”

The words sliced.

He froze. Completely. Like a statue carved from heartbreak and disbelief.

“Oh.” His voice broke on the single syllable. “Oh.”

He sank down onto the nearest seat, hands shaking violently now without anything left to hold onto. His mind raced uselessly—through memories, through promises, through every soft moment that led him to believe they would never let him stand alone at the altar.

“I thought…” His breath shuddered. “I thought they loved me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek—not dramatic, not loud. Quiet, like him. Like something too fragile to even fall properly.

Guests looked away. Some cried for him. Some whispered pity. None dared to touch him.

He lifted a trembling hand to his chest, flattening his palm over his heart as if trying to hold it in place.

“I would’ve given them everything,” he whispered, barely audible. “I already did.”

His shoulders trembled once, twice— a sound escaping him that was not a sob, not a cry— just a broken exhale from a man desperately trying to stay composed in front of a room full of witnesses.

“They promised they’d walk toward me,” he murmured, staring at the empty aisle like it was a grave. “And I… I believed them.”

His voice shook.

“I still do.”