It didn’t feel like a wedding at first.
People were still figuring out where to sit. Someone’s uncle was asking if the chairs were supposed to be that close together. The bride’s cousin brought the wrong shoes.
It wasn’t loud.
No big announcement. No grand entrance.
She just walked in holding her sister’s hand.
And everything got quiet.
Not on purpose. Just… people noticed.
There was a kid sitting two rows ahead of me — turned around the whole time, just watching the couple. Didn’t blink much. I remember thinking: that’s the kind of stillness you can’t fake.
It started raining. Not pouring, just enough to smudge things.
Menus curled at the corners.
Someone used a jacket to cover the cake.
They didn’t stop anything.
At some point, she started reading her vows, and he didn’t look at her — he looked down at her shoes.
Later I found out she was wearing the same ones from their first date.
That kind of thing sticks with you.
A few weeks before that, I’d gone to another wedding.
They said their vows under this old tree —
the same tree where they once had a huge fight.
She told me it was the first place she realized she didn’t want to leave.
Little details like that.
They never show up in the invitation.