Panic isn’t the right word yet, but it’s close. I know I shouldn’t feel like this. There shouldn’t be this pressure. It’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life, right?

I’m not even there anymore. I know she’s standing in front of me, expectantly peering into my frozen eyes, but is it even me she’s looking at? I’m vaguely aware the priest is droning on to the statue’s right. Something about having and holding. I’m not listening.

How did I let it get this far? At first it was just nice to be with someone again. To touch, to laugh, to come home to somebody. But I knew it was shallow. I could never really open up to her but I had to try to move on somehow, right? I can’t keep living, pinned by this weight from the past. But I didn’t want to be here. There was just so much pressure. Her mother? Jesus, back off, woman!

Did he just say “as long as you both shall live?” No! No, stop staring at me, both of you! No, I don’t take this woman! Get me out of here! Stop holding my hands! Oh god, what have I done?

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