outside, you can hear the distant murmur of guests, the shuffle of feet on grass, a stray laugh cutting through the low hum of conversation.

you’re tucked away in a small back room of the venue, a converted manor on the outskirts of london. the walls are a soft cream, dotted with faded floral wallpaper. a full-length mirror stands in the corner, reflecting you back at yourself.

your dress hangs off your shoulders, delicate lace trailing down your arms. your hair is done, pinned back with small white flowers. your makeup is light, natural — exactly what you wanted.

and in your hands, the paper trembles.

your vows.

you’ve read them a hundred times. a thousand. but your heart still hammers against your ribs like it’s the first time.

the door creaks open.