We always tell on ourselves. I looked a little too long when she wore that tight silver dress that flowed down to the floor. I sounded a little too wistful when I said you look beautiful, no, I really mean it. And I didn’t tell her when he came to pick her up that I wished it was just us instead. He took her delicate hand and led her down the wooden stairs like a scene in Cinderella. Cinderella wanted a prince, not a handmaid. But I didn’t really mind watching them dance all night because her smile sparkled. And when she was happy, so was I. Never mind tears into the pillowcase and tightness in my chest. Never mind the shattering inside when she said I love you and it was so hard to say it back because that wasn’t all I wanted to say. I wanted to say I love you, but more than he does. And I love you when mascara makes tire tracks down your cheeks and when you huff at me because I’ve been out too late and especially when you ask me what were you thinking? I was thinking about you and chasing you down the aisle like I had your glass slipper in my hand and that it would fit better if I helped you try it on. But I told you congratulations with champagne fizzing my head into oblivion. And I told you I’ve been too busy to visit your new place this Christmas. But I’m not busy, I’m lost. And I know I went wrong somewhere in the beginning or the middle but at least the end will be wrapped in one big bow with a tag that reads “I love you, no, I really mean it.”
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