Outside the kitchen, a chair scraped against the floor.
Noah had heard her.
I opened the door.
He was already walking toward the porch.
I followed him, but he said he needed air.
After that, the comments became harder to ignore.
One cousin asked whether we had considered “all the practical issues.”
A former friend joked that our wedding photographs would be confusing.
Someone told Noah he was lucky to find a woman “willing to look past everything.”
Each remark carved something out of him.
He stopped talking about the wedding.
He avoided mirrors during suit fittings.
When I asked what was wrong, he said he was tired.
On our wedding day, he disappeared.
Zahara, my maid of honor, found me while my hair was being pinned.
“Noah locked himself in the dressing room.”
I stood so fast the stylist nearly dropped the curling iron.
At the dressing-room door, I knocked.
“Noah?”
There was no answer.
I tried the handle.
It was locked.
“Open the door.”
“I need a minute.”
“You have had several.”
Zahara found the venue manager, who brought a key.
When the door opened, Noah sat on the floor in his wedding suit.
The old purple-crayon pact rested in his hands.
He looked up at me with red eyes.
“I am releasing you from it,” he said.
My heart cracked.
“What?”
“You do not have to carry me as your burden anymore.”
I knelt in front of him.
“You are not a burden.”
