Aishweriya's POV
The lace on Olivia Patterson's veil shimmered like stardust as she danced with Sebastian under strings of warm, golden lights. The courtyard overflowed with laughter, music, and champagne flutes catching the glow of twilight. Everything was perfect, at least on the surface.
And yet, I stood at the edge of the garden, invisible and brittle, blinking back the kind of tears that had no single cause—only the accumulation of too many silences, too many swallowed dreams.
I had helped craft every moment of this wedding. The blush roses wrapped around the altar, the delicate calligraphy on the place cards, the midnight blue silk drapes that matched Sebastian's tie. It was flawless.
So why did I feel like I couldn't breathe?
"Crying won't fix anything," a voice said gently behind me.
I turned, startled, and found a man standing just a few feet away, his tie loosened, jacket unbuttoned. There was no smugness in his face—just a quiet understanding that made my heart pause for a beat.
"I'm not crying," I said, quickly wiping beneath one eye. "Just allergies. Something in the air tonight."
He didn't challenge it. Just offered a small, knowing smile that told me he saw through the paper-thin excuse.
"The pollen count is particularly high this evening," he said, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "At least, that's what I tell people when they catch me in moments like these."
I noticed the kindness in his eyes then—a gentle acknowledgment of shared vulnerability without pushing too far.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," I echoed.
We stood in silence for a heartbeat.
"Not much of a wedding person?" he asked finally.
I shrugged lightly. "They're beautiful. But sometimes they make you think too much."
"About what?"
"The roads not taken. The choices we make." I glanced at him. "I'm sorry. That sounds overly dramatic for a conversation with a stranger."
He stepped closer, head tilted slightly. "That's a pretty profound observation for someone hiding in the garden shadows."
"I'm not hiding," I said defensively, then caught myself. "Okay, maybe I am. It's just... have you ever helped build someone else's dream while watching your own collect dust in the corner?"
"That sounds like something that's been sitting inside you a long time."
I looked away, embarrassed. "Sorry. That's probably too heavy for a conversation with a stranger."
He stepped closer, offering his hand with a lopsided grin. "I'm Carter."
I smiled back—softly, because it felt safe to. "Nice to meet you, Carter."
I didn't give my name. Not because I wanted to be mysterious, but because the name everyone knew me by came with expectations I didn't want to carry into this moment.
He looked at me for a second too long, his brows pulling together just slightly. "You look..." he hesitated, "like you're carrying something heavy today."
"Just the weight of unwritten possibilities," I said, surprising myself with my honesty. "Haven't you ever stood at the edge of something beautiful and felt like you were looking through glass at a life that could have been yours?"
I exhaled, surprised that he could see it. "Sometimes it's hard to say in words what we're feeling."
"Or maybe we're afraid of what happens when we finally give those feelings a voice," he suggested. "As if naming them might make them too real to ignore anymore."
My eyes drifted to the dance floor where Olivia and Sebastian swayed in sync, their world shrunk down to just the two of them. "Don't you think the biggest feelings are the hardest to express?"
He nodded, something soft flickering in his gaze. "The most important things are often the hardest to say. It's like... the words shrink them somehow. Make them smaller than what they are inside us."
"As if language itself is the compromise," I added.
"Exactly," he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. "Like trying to describe the ocean to someone who's never seen water."
The music shifted—something slower, almost nostalgic.
Without a word, he extended his hand again, not like before. This time, an invitation.
I stared at it for a moment. Then, I took it.
He led me toward the edge of the lawn where fewer people danced, a quieter corner of celebration. We moved slowly, uncertain at first, like neither of us wanted to admit how much this meant for reasons we didn't fully understand.
His hand was warm against mine, steady. I let him guide me.
"I'm not really a dancer," I whispered.
"You're doing fine," he said, smiling. "Dancing isn't about knowing all the steps in advance. It's about finding harmony in the uncertainty."
"Is that a metaphor for something else?" I asked, my voice lighter than it had been all evening.
"Only if you want it to be," he replied, his eyes meeting mine.
I relaxed into the rhythm. The stars hadn't come out yet, but I felt as though they would, just for this.
"Do you ever feel like your life's already been written by someone else?" I asked, my voice barely louder than the music. "Like somewhere along the way, you started living according to a script you never actually agreed to?"
He didn't flinch. "Yeah. Like the story's moving without you. And you're just... pretending to belong in it."
That hit harder than I expected. I looked up at him, my heart thudding louder than the song.
"How did you know to say exactly that?" I asked, throat tightening.
He shrugged, a gesture both casual and profound. "Maybe because I've stood in those same shadows, wondering how I ended up playing a role that never quite fit. You recognize the look in someone else when you've worn it yourself."
"But you seem so... comfortable. Present."
"Now, maybe," he said. "But it took years of unlearning who I thought I was supposed to be before I could start figuring out who I actually am."
His honesty stripped away my defenses.
"I have a painting in an exhibition tonight," I said suddenly. "It's being shown for the first time... but it's under a fake name. No one knows it's mine."
His gaze searched my face, but he didn't ask why.
"I want to be proud of it," I said, "but instead I'm here, dancing at a wedding, pretending it doesn't matter."
"Why hide behind another name?" he asked softly, not judgment but genuine curiosity in his voice.
I took a breath. "Because if people don't know it's me, they'll see the art for what it truly is, not for who made it. And if they hate it..." I trailed off.
"Then the rejection feels less personal?" he finished.
"Something like that. But it also means if they love it, I can't fully claim that either."
"It matters," he said gently. "Even if no one else knows it's yours. You know. The truth doesn't disappear just because it's hidden."
"But what's the point of creating something if you're too afraid to stand beside it?"
"Maybe tonight is part of the journey toward that courage," he said, his hand pressing slightly more firmly against my back. "Maybe you needed to speak it aloud to someone who doesn't know all your reasons for hiding."
For a few minutes, we just danced.
I closed my eyes. The pressure in my chest eased—not gone, but loosened enough for me to breathe. It felt like something beautiful and temporary. A moment borrowed from a life I could only imagine.
"What would you do," he asked quietly, "if you weren't afraid?"
The question landed like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through me.
"I'd walk into that gallery right now," I whispered. "I'd stand in front of my painting and feel the fear and pride together, instead of running from both."
The song faded, and reality crept in again.
He looked at me like he wanted to say something, but instead he said, "Come on. Let's get out of here."
I blinked. "What?"
"Just for a little while," he said. "You need air. And ice cream."
I gave a small laugh—surprised, unpolished. "Are you serious?"
"As serious as pistachio with sprinkles."
"How did you know pistachio is my favorite?" I asked, genuinely startled.
He smiled. "Lucky guess. You strike me as someone with unconventional taste."
Some wild, quiet part of me nodded. "Okay."
"Okay to ice cream, or okay to being unconventional?" he asked, a playful light in his eyes.
"Both," I said. "Definitely both."
We found a tiny ice cream parlour a few blocks from the estate. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as we sat on the curb outside like teenagers. He ordered mint chocolate chip. I chose pistachio. Always pistachio.
"I don't usually do things like this," I said.
"Eat ice cream?" he teased.
"Run away with strangers."
"Would it help if I reminded you that I'm Carter?"
I laughed again, more freely this time. "Only a little."
"What do you usually do, then?" he asked. "When the world feels too small or too large or just... wrong somehow?"
I considered this. "I paint. Or I used to. Lately, I've been too busy helping other people build their moments while neglecting my own."
"Like tonight's wedding?"
"Exactly like tonight's wedding," I admitted. Watching someone start this new chapter while mine feels..." I struggled for the right word.
"Unwritten?" he offered.
"More like stuck in perpetual draft mode."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it felt like a pause between heartbeats. A safe space to breathe.
"What about you?" I asked. "What brings you to a wedding where you're escaping to console strangers by the garden?"
He considered for a moment. "Umm, what if I told you Olivia is my ex-girlfriend turned best friend and Sebastian is my best friend now?"
I nearly choked on my ice cream. "Wait, what? You're saying you're the ex attending your former girlfriend's wedding to your best friend? And you're just casually hanging out here eating ice cream with a stranger instead of drinking yourself into oblivion?"
"When you put it that way, it does sound like the setup for a really bad rom-com," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
"Or a psychological thriller," I added, suddenly questioning my decision to leave the wedding with him. "Should I be worried that you're plotting some elaborate revenge?"
"God, no," he said, looking genuinely horrified. "It's actually... weirdly fine. We dated in school. It was serious for a year, I mean cheerleader and a football player. But because of my mistake, I lost he,r but then she also helped me and Sebastian,n to, so yes I am happy they are together now
"So you're what... the architect of your own awkward situation?"
"Exactly," he grinned. "Though I have to admit, the invitation did come with a tiny handwritten note saying 'No dramatic objections during the ceremony, please.'"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Well, that explains why you're hiding in gardens talking to crying strangers."
"I wasn't hiding," he protested. "I was... strategically relocating."
"And I wasn't crying," I reminded him.
And saying this I look up. and a question pops up in my mind
"what do you do when the world feels wrong?" I echoed his question to him.
"I look up," he said simply.
He leaned back on his palms and looked up. "Orion," he said, pointing.
I tilted my head. The stars had arrived at last, and Orion's belt stretched across the navy sky like a silent guardian.
"My uncle used to tell me stories about the constellations," I said. "He made them sound like myths and promises."
"Which was your favorite?" he asked.
"Cassiopeia," I said without hesitation. "The queen who was both punished for her pride and immortalized for it. There's something honest about that contradiction."
"Do you miss him?"
"All the time."
I didn't mention that he was the only family member who ever saw my art and didn't ask if it was "just a hobby." I didn't mention that he was the reason I dared to submit that painting in the first place.
"What would he say to you now, do you think?" Carter asked.
The question caught me off guard, and I felt tears threaten again. "He'd probably tell me to stop hiding. That fear makes a terrible compass."
"Smart man," Carter said softly.
"I think he'd be proud of you," Carter added, like he could read the parts I hadn't said aloud. "For creating something true, even if you're not ready to stand beside it yet."
"I hope so," I whispered. "Sometimes I feel like I'm letting him down by being so cautious."
"Or maybe you're honoring him by creating at all, in whatever way you can right now," Carter suggested. "Maybe courage isn't always about grand gestures. Sometimes it's just about not giving up."
We sat in silence again, this time staring up together.
"Tell me something real," I said suddenly. "Something you don't tell people at weddings."
He thought for a moment. "I write poetry," he said finally. "Terrible poetry that no one will ever read."
"Why terrible?"
"Because it's honest," he said with a small laugh. "And honesty rarely sounds polished."
I smiled at that. "I'd read it."
"Maybe someday," he said, and I caught the hint of vulnerability beneath his casual tone.
We finished our ice cream in comfortable silence, the night wrapping around us like a shared secret.
"I should go back," I said finally, even though every part of me resisted it. "People will start to wonder where I've disappeared to."
"I know."
He didn't ask for my number. He didn't push for anything more. But as I stood, I turned to him and said, "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For reminding me I still exist. Beyond the roles I play for everyone else."
His voice was quiet when he answered. "You've always existed. You just needed someone to see you."
"Is that what happened tonight?" I asked. "You saw me?"
"I recognized you," he corrected gently. "There's a difference."
I nodded, understanding perfectly what he meant.
"Maybe..." I hesitated, then gathered my courage. "Maybe after I finish here, I could go to that gallery. See my painting hanging there."
"I think that sounds like a perfect ending to an unexpected evening," he said.
"Or beginning," I suggested softly.
"Or beginning," he agreed with a smile.
I walked away with the taste of pistachio on my lips and the stars still reflected in my eyes.
Back into the cave.
But tonight, for the first time in a long while, I had felt the sky.