days to go. Aaron is back. I’m so pathetic. Did I push him too hard? Did I scare him with my pre–wedding jitters? It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been so clingy. I just love him so much.” … This planner would be my parting gift to him. A gift that would cut deeper than any knife.
I’d gotten used to the idea of a “makeshift” wedding dress for the ceremony in New York. Aaron had grandly promised a custom–made masterpiece, designed by some big–shot, for a later, more elaborate celebration on the island he’d bought me when he proposed. The island, named after me, no less. How ironic. He’d been the one who claimed his dreams had come true that day. Now, days before the wedding, he was the one plotting my humiliation, planning to
leave me standing at the altar. Aaron, tell me, is
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2002
finding a genuine heart in this world really that damn difficult? I saw another update from
Peach Blossom: “Nailed the interview! Aaron’s
keeping me close. One step closer to my dream guy! Hee hee.” The photo was a sneaky shot of
Aaron in a meeting. I screenshotted everything.
And wrote in my wedding planner: “17 days to
- go. He’s the moon in my sky, the man of my
dreams.” Few people know the next line of that
poem: “But my heart has always been a
spectator, while I’m trapped in the middle of
this play.” It was all a mirage, a beautiful
illusion. But I was determined to spin that illusion into a perfect dream for him, only to watch him fall from grace. So, for the next week, I kept Aaron busy. I left all the wedding details to him, making him deal directly with the planners. I wanted him to know every single detail, every flower arrangement, every vendor, every step of the ceremony, down to the
minute. He’d whine, “Babe, marrying you is a full–time job!” I’d laugh and say, “Aaron, after all this work, all this effort… you’re not going to
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bail on me, are you?” He’d pause, then pull me
close. “Baby, never. I’m crazy about you.”
Meanwhile, in his group chat with his friends,
he’d write: “Wedding planning is a pain in the
ass. Makes the thought of ditching her even
sweeter, right? Leaving her with the mess?
Humiliating everyone? That’s the real payback.”
I said nothing, just kept him busy addressing invitations. They’d already been sent out, but I
suggested we send another round to our
closest friends, handwritten. He wrote, I sealed.
I made him write: “Sunrise brings hope, sunset
