Not Your Benchmark
The ivory-white train of the wedding gown spread across the polished marble floor, the lace trim gently rising and falling with each breath, like clouds resting upon the ground.
Bruce Young stood just three steps away, his custom-tailored suit collar crisp and without a single wrinkle.
He ought to have been the happiest groom at this moment, yet when my gaze passed over his tightly pressed lips, I caught a fleeting trace of panic.
From the third row of the guest seats came the sudden, delicate clash of porcelain, immediately followed by a series of gasps.
I turned to follow the gaze of the crowd, and in the backlit doorway stood a slender figure.
Linda White wore a mist blue chiffon gown, the hemline trailing across the red carpet with each step; the lace trim, the arrangement of pearl buttons, even the sash bow at her waist in the same hue—all mirrored the dress I wore.
She strode directly to the front of the stage, seized the gilded microphone reserved for the emcee, and traced the patterns etched upon it with her fingertip.
"Bruce, congratulations." That saccharine voice echoed through the church like a honey-soaked needle, painfully piercing the eardrums.
Bruce Young's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, his brows furrowed into a deep brown knot, yet he said not a single word.
I clenched the bouquet tightly, my fingers pressing deep into my palm; the thorns of the white roses pierced through the silk and into my skin, yet I remained oblivious even as droplets of blood seeped out.
"Does this dress look nice?" Linda White spun around, the mist blue hemline fluttering and scattering a fine dust of light.
Her gaze slid over my wedding gown like a wandering serpent, finally settling on my face. 'I booked the designer after three months of searching; they said this is the most fashionable bridal style this year.'
Suppressed snickers rose from the back row, and whispers began to ripple through the crowd.
I could imagine their expressions in that moment—surprise, disdain, and perhaps a thrill at witnessing a spectacle.
'Linda White, today is my wedding.'I heard my own voice squeezed out between clenched teeth, dry as sandpaper scraping.
She tilted her head and blinked; her long lashes cast faint shadows over her eyelids, like an innocent fawn. 'I know. I dressed specially to be your bridesmaid. Don't we look like twin sisters?'
"It's not like that. "I stared fixedly at the diamond brooch on her chest—identical to mine—"Take it off."
"Why?" Linda White suddenly raised her voice, the microphone crackling with a sharp electrical hiss. "What I wear is none of your business! Bruce hasn't said a word!"
Bruce Young suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm; his fingertips were icy cold and slick with sweat.
"Tina, forget it." He lowered his head, warm breath grazing my ear. "Linda is just being childish; don't let outsiders make a joke of us."
"An outsider?" I shook off his hand; the sleeve of my wedding gown slipped from my shoulder, revealing a patch of pale skin. "Wearing a counterfeit wedding dress to provoke at my own wedding—this is childish? Then what do you call malice?"
"She means no harm." Bruce Young's voice deepened, heavy with evident impatience, "Enough already. Don't make a scene."
I stared at him, stunned and silent.
Sunlight poured through the stained-glass window, casting kaleidoscopic hues across his face. Yet the eyes I once found so tender now held only evasion and reproach.
It was as if the one who had done wrong was not Linda White, who disrupted the wedding, but I, the one standing up for what I believed in.
Linda White stood aside, the curve of her lips like a venomous crescent moon.
At some unknown moment, the pipe organ in the church fell silent; the dust floating in the air carried a biting chill, freezing the heart with pain.
The pastor cleared his throat and awkwardly pushed up his glasses: 'Uh... shall we continue?'
I met Bruce Young's evasive gaze and suddenly laughed out loud.
The laughter echoed through the empty church, shockingly out of place.
"No need." I lifted the train of the wedding gown and turned toward the side door, each step crushing the scattered patches of light on the floor. "This marriage—I'm not going through with it."
Bruce Young called my name from behind, his voice trembling with urgency.
I neither looked back nor faltered in my steps.
The hemline swept past the benches lining the corridor, leaving a trail of delicate lace petals—like a dream abruptly drawing its final curtain.
By the time I returned to the bridal chamber, dusk had already settled.
I threw the wedding gown onto the sofa; the pearl strands of the veil tangled in the crystal tassels of the chandelier, like a chaotic spider's web.
The phone vibrated relentlessly inside my bag, the screen flashing Bruce Young's name along with a dozen missed calls.
I silenced the phone and stepped barefoot onto the cold floor.
The floor-to-ceiling window in the living room mirrored the myriad lights of the building opposite; each illuminated window held another story, while here, only a solitary, neglected lamp burned.
Time slipped away until the sound of the door lock turning broke the silence.
Bruce Young entered, carrying a chill about him; his tie hung crookedly around his neck, and his hair was tousled like wild grass swept by the wind.
"Tina, please hear me out..."
"There's no need for explanations." I interrupted him, my fingertips brushing over the wedding invitation on the coffee table; the embossed golden 'happiness' pressed painfully against my skin. "You should leave."
His footsteps faltered, his eyes bloodshot. "Tina, Linda White has taken sleeping pills. I have to go check on her."
I suddenly looked up at him, the light carving deep shadows across his face. "So? You mean she's causing a scene at my wedding, and now you expect me to tolerate her extremes?"
"She didn't mean it; she was simply overwhelmed with emotion.""Bruce Young's voice was heavy with fatigue, "I'm taking her to the hospital and will be back soon."
"There's no need to come back." I watched his retreating figure, suddenly feeling unbearably alien, "Bruce Young, we are over."
His footsteps hesitated briefly, but he ultimately opened the door and walked out.
The sound of the door slamming echoed through the silent room, making my eardrums ring.
I sat on the floor, my back pressed against the cold wall, tears falling like broken strings of pearls, striking the polished floor and spreading small, damp stains.
The next morning, the sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains pierced my eyes, making it impossible to open them.
The phone screen was lit, displaying a message about an appointment to register our marriage in three days, still lying in the inbox; the red 'Confirm' button mocked me like a watchful eye.
I stretched out my finger and gently tapped 'Cancel.'
The moment my fingertip touched the screen, it felt as if a thousand-pound burden had been lifted.
While scrolling through my social feed, Linda White's post suddenly appeared on the homepage.
In the grid of nine photos, she wore a pink patient gown, leaning against Bruce Young's chest, her face covered in a facial mask, holding up a cup of milk tea, her eyes smiling into narrow slits.
The caption read: "Thankfully you were here; I was scared to death."
The post was published at 2 a.m., precisely the moment Bruce Young claimed she had swallowed sleeping pills and was being taken to the hospital.
In the photo, she looked radiant, without a trace of weakness; on her wrist was a freshly bought silver bracelet, gleaming under the flash.
I gazed at the photo for a long while before suddenly bursting into laughter.
I was, in fact, the most laughable of all—like a clown, diligently acting out a script written by others, foolishly believing I held the script to happiness.
Lying in bed, tossing and turning, the ceiling twisted into strange shapes in the darkness.
Memories surfaced like damp film strips, frame by frame in my mind, blurred with spots of light and noisy static.
Our first date was at a cafe in the southern part of the city; Bruce Young ordered my favorite coffee.
We had just started reminiscing about amusing university stories when Linda White suddenly pushed the door open, pale-faced, clutching Bruce Young's arm: 'Bruce, my stomach hurts badly. Could you take me to the hospital?' As she spoke, her eyes flicked over Bruce's shoulder and locked onto me with a deliberately provocative gaze.
Bruce Young furrowed his brows and shot me an apologetic look: "Tina, I'm sorry. I have to take her to the hospital first. I'll explain everything to you later."
I watched their hurried figures fade away, the coffee before me slowly cooling, its sweet caramel scent turning bitter.
It wasn't until late that night that Bruce Young sent a message: "Linda has acute appendicitis. She just had surgery, and I have to stay with her."
On my twenty-fifth birthday, Bruce Young gave me a platinum necklace, its pendant a delicate little star.
He said, "Whenever I see it, it reminds me of you; it's always sparkling."
I treasured the necklace as if it were a precious heirloom; I couldn't bear to take it off, even to sleep.
But the next day, right outside the office building, I unexpectedly ran into Linda White.
She was wearing the same cream-colored trench coat as I was, and around her neck hung an identical star necklace.
"Does it look nice?" she deliberately held the necklace in front of my eyes. "Bruce said this star really reminds him of me, so he specially bought it for me."
My hand clutching the briefcase trembled slightly as I returned home and confronted Bruce Young.
He was playing a video game and, without looking up, said, "Oh, I also happened to buy her one that day. Don't read too much into it."
"By the way?" I glanced at his focused profile and suddenly felt completely estranged. "Do you understand what that necklace means to me?"
"Isn't it just a necklace?" He finally set down the game controller, his tone laced with impatience. "Linda White and I have been close since childhood; can't you be more magnanimous?"
Last winter, we had planned to go skiing.
The plane tickets and hotel were all booked, but the day before we were to leave, Bruce Young suddenly said, "Linda just broke up and has been crying at home for two days. I need to go be with her."
"What about our trip then?" I stared at the itinerary on the computer screen, my voice trembling.
"We can make it up later." He patted my shoulder. "She needs company more right now."
Those interrupted dates, neglected anniversaries, and shared gifts—like countless fine needles, they pierced relentlessly into my heart.
Bruce Young always had an excuse: "She just sees me as a brother," "You need to be more mature," "Don't be so petty."
I stood up and walked to the study, where the moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting mottled shadows on the floor.
Bruce Young's usual laptop was still on; its screensaver displayed a shimmering starry sky.
He had once said the password was his birthday. I tried it, and it indeed unlocked.
On the desktop, there was an encrypted folder named "Time."
On an impulse, I entered Linda White's birthday, and the folder clicked open.
Inside, a dozen or so photo albums were neatly arranged, titled "Seaside," "Mountain peak," "Ancient town"...
Opening the "Seaside" album, the photos that appeared on the screen took my breath away.
Bruce Young, dressed in a white shirt, was kissing Linda White beneath the setting sun.
Waves lapped at their ankles, and Linda's smile shone brilliantly against the backlight.
The photo was taken last summer, during the very week he said the company held a team-building event.
In the 'Mountain peak' album, they wore matching windbreakers, making heart gestures before the sea of clouds.
The date was our one-year anniversary; that day he said there was a departmental dinner, and he returned reeking of alcohol.
I mechanically moved the mouse; my fingers were icy cold, as if numb.
They held hands beneath the cherry blossom tree, embraced before the Castle, and in countless moments when I thought he was 'busy,' they laughed so heartily.
The last folder contained a Word document named 'Diary.'
Upon opening, the font, size five—crept into my eyes like ants:
"March 15: Tina is very sensible, not as fragile as Linda White, truly suitable for marriage."
"April 20: Linda White is sulking again, truly a child who refuses to grow up. What would I do without her?"
"May 7: Tina said she wanted to take couple photos—forget it, too much trouble. Linda White is better; she looks good no matter how you photograph her."
"June 1: I should propose to Tina—her family is well-off and can support my career. As for Linda White... that will have to wait."
I had always thought that Bruce Young didn't like taking photos; the number of group pictures on his phone was scarce.
It turns out it's not that he dislikes taking photos, but that he doesn't like taking them with me.
Those few treasured photos I kept were, in his eyes, perhaps merely perfunctory tasks.
Tears fell onto the keyboard, blurring a small patch of moisture.
I closed the laptop; in the darkness, the wavering answer in my heart finally settled like dust.
I no longer want a love like this.
Download the SnackShort app, Search 【 634409 】reads the whole book.
My Fiction
SnackShort
Booklite« Previous Post
Signing Divorce on the Day of Miscarriage
Next Post »
My Husband's Mistress Became My Landlord