Mary had taken two steps away when something inside her shattered—
Not like porcelain this time, but like a shell, cracking from within.
She turned back suddenly.
Isabelle hadn't moved. She stood quiet beneath the willow, hands folded, her face composed but her eyes waiting, aching.
Mary rushed forward and threw her arms around her.
A sudden, desperate, tight embrace.
Isabelle froze, startled—but only for a moment. Then she held her back, just as tightly.
Mary buried her face into Isabelle's shoulder, her voice muffled, breaking.
"I don't know what sin this is," she whispered, "but I don't want to care anymore. Not tonight."
Isabelle said nothing—only held her.
"I only want this night," Mary went on, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks. "Just this. Just you. And I don't ever want it to end."
Isabelle pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her. Her voice was soft and unsure, like a song played too quietly.
"Are you sure?"
"No," Mary whispered. "But I've been sure of everything else, and none of it has made me feel alive."
They stood there in the soft silver moonlight, their hands still locked in the space between them.
Isabelle brushed her thumb gently under Mary's eye, catching a tear. "You're brave in ways you don't even see."
Mary laughed bitterly. "I'm not brave. I've lied with every 'yes' I've said. I'm about to marry a man I barely know just to make my parents proud. I wake up every morning wondering if it'll be the day I finally disappear into someone else's plan."
"Then don't disappear," Isabelle said. "Even if it's just tonight—be you. Not the daughter. Not the bride. Just Mary."
"And who is that?" Mary asked, voice cracking.
Isabelle took her hand and brought it to her chest, holding it close.
"She's the girl who once made flower crowns in an orchard.
She's the girl I've dreamed about since I was ten.
She's the girl who is standing here now, even though everything says she shouldn't be.
And she's the girl I've loved—quietly, fiercely—for longer than I even understood what love meant."
Mary's lips parted, breath caught in her throat. "I thought I was imagining you. I thought I'd made you up."
"You didn't," Isabelle said, her voice shaking now too. "I'm real. And I'm here."
They sat together on the bench beneath the willow tree, hands tangled, words pouring slowly like the stream nearby—uneasy, hesitant, but pure.
"I don't know what's right anymore," Mary murmured. "But I know this feels right."
"That's enough," Isabelle said, resting her head lightly against Mary's. "Tonight, it's enough."
And for once in her life, Mary let herself feel instead of fear.
She let the moment hold her.
She let Isabelle hold her.
And in that quiet hour, under the watchful moon and whispering willow, Mary wasn't the mayor's daughter.
She wasn't a bride-to-be.
She was herself.
And she was in love.