It was seven days before
you wore white.
Seven days before you'd
belong to someone else
in a room full of
fucking flowers and applause.
And I—
I called you
to ask about some stupid project.
"Hey, about the deck… I can't find your last notes."
Bullshit.
I could find them if I wanted to.
But I just wanted to hear your voice.
You picked up on the third ring.
Your voice cracked a little—
like you didn't expect me.
"Grey?"
"Just checking the revisions,"
I said.
Like I wasn't counting the days.
Like I didn't wake up at 2 a.m.
wondering if your dress had sleeves.
And when you answered,
so calm,
so fucking nice,
so you,
I thought—
What if she canceled the wedding
after this call?
What if she said
I don't want anyone else but you?
What if she cried?
What if she begged?
But you didn't.
You just helped.
You were always helping.
And then you said,
"Good luck with the pitch."
Like it was any other week.
And I said,
"You too."
You too.
With the vows.
With the man who isn't me.
You too.
With the life that
should've been
us.