**Fury a Minute Before the Wedding**
«Am I some kind of joke to you?» cried Eleanor, gripping her bouquet so tightly the stems creaked. «Are you mocking me?»
«Just calm down,» muttered Edmund, adjusting his collar in the mirror with infuriating calm. «I’m only being honest. Better now than later.»
«Now? Now? Twenty minutes before the ceremony, you tell me you’re ‘not sure’?» She let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, eyes blazing. «Have you lost your mind?»
«Would you rather I lied, smiled, put a ring on your finger, and spent the rest of my life miserable? I’m not made of stone.»
«And I am?» She took a step forward, her whole body tense as if she might strike him, but stopped. «Three months I spent choosing this dress. My mother saved for half a year to book the venue. We’ve got guests here from all over—your parents came down from Manchester! Mine from Bristol! And you… you just shrug and say you’re ‘not sure’?»
«I can’t do it,» he muttered, staring at the floor. «It doesn’t feel right.»
«What’s wrong, then? With me? Tell me! Is it my teeth? Did I humiliate you? Was it too much when I supported you after your third job in a row fell through? Or was I too eager for children? What? Say something—anything—other than this pathetic ‘I can’t’!»
He sank onto the edge of a chair, silent. She stood trembling, fists clenched in the delicate lace of her gown. Beyond the door, footsteps hurried, voices called for the photographer. Music played, filling the air like something from a film—only this wasn’t a love story. It was betrayal.
«You know,» Eleanor said hollowly, «even now, after this, part of me still hopes you’ll snap out of it. Look me in the eye and say you’re an idiot, and we’ll walk out there together.»
Edmund lifted his gaze—and slowly shook his head.
She nodded, straightened, and walked out. Past the bewildered bridesmaids, past the open doors of the hall, past the flustered coordinator frantically dialling someone. Outside, the air was thick and heavy. She inhaled sharply—as if she could swallow the hurt—then tossed the bouquet onto a bench and fished a cigarette from her purse. She didn’t smoke, but right now, she didn’t care.
«Ellie, where are you going?» Her friend Charlotte caught up, breathless. «What’s happened?»
Eleanor turned. Her eyes were dry, her face a mask. «Home.»
«And the wedding?»
«There won’t be one.»
Charlotte gasped. «You’re joking.»
«I thought he was too. But no. He’s ‘not sure.’ Needs time to think. And I—I need to move on.»
Charlotte grabbed her arm. «Wait—you can’t just leave! The guests, the arrangements—what if he changes his mind?»
«If a man can abandon a woman in her wedding dress a minute before vows, he’s already decided,» Eleanor said flatly. «He just said it too late.»
«Maybe talk to his father? He’s always liked you.»
«No. I won’t beg.»
She walked on, the train of her dress dragging through puddles. Strangers stared; someone filmed her on their phone. She bought a can of lager from a corner shop and sat on the kerb, loosening her corset with a deep breath.
«It’s over.»
Footsteps approached. She expected a guest, or her mother—but it was James, Edmund’s younger brother.
«What are you doing here?» he asked softly.
«Celebrating freedom. You?»
«Edmund’s a fool. I don’t know what’s in his head, but this is rotten. Really rotten.»
«That’s putting it mildly.»
James sat beside her. «He said something a few days ago. That it all felt too fast, that he wasn’t sure he could handle it. I thought it was just nerves—you know, like all blokes get before weddings. But this…»
«Let him live as he pleases. I’ve learned one thing: better alone than with someone who can’t keep his word.»
Silence. Then she glanced at him. «Tell me honestly—did you ever think we weren’t right together?»
James smirked. «Opposite. I always thought you were too good for him. Stronger. Carried everything. Sometimes I wondered if he held you back.»
She nodded, then tilted her head to the sky. The wind had turned cooler; thunder rumbled in the distance.
«Go, Jamie. Tell them I’m not coming. Let them enjoy the party. At least the booze won’t go to waste.»
He hesitated, then kissed her cheek—quick, gentle.
«You’re good. Really good. Don’t let this break you.»
She watched him leave.
An hour later, she called a cab. At home, she stripped off the dress and shoved it into the wardrobe. Under the shower, scalding water ran over her skin, but she didn’t cry. The fury had no outlet—just a seething, silent weight.
Her mother arrived at dinner, wordlessly setting a pot of stew on the table.
«He called,» she finally said.
«Don’t answer.»
«I didn’t.»
Eleanor picked at her food.
«Are you angry?» her mother asked softly.
«Not angry. Just… full of something that has no way out. Like I might burst.»
«That’s not anger. It’s hurt.»
«No. It’s fury. For the dress, the dreams—for standing there, a grown woman with a degree and a career, begging some man to explain himself.»
Her mother nodded. «It’ll pass.»
«I know. But not soon.»
«Go somewhere.»
«I will.»
«I’m proud of you. For holding your head high.»
Eleanor hugged her tightly. «Thank you.»
«Rest. And never look back. No calls, no explanations. It’s already clear.»
That night, she lay staring at the ceiling. Then, just before sleep, she let out two silent tears—not a storm, just a release.
The next morning, she went to work. Colleagues glanced with pity but said nothing. And that was right. Silence was kinder than sympathy.
A week later, she withdrew the wedding savings, booked a train to Edinburgh, and left. She wandered the cobbled streets, sat by the water, read in cafés. Once, she saw a groom kiss his bride outside St. Giles’—her heart twinged, but she smiled.
Back home, she had the dress cleaned and donated it.
Edmund’s number was blocked. His letters went unopened.
Months later, she met Thomas at a bus stop—rain, one umbrella between them. Then coffee. Then a film. Then Sunday markets. She didn’t overthink it. She just lived.
One summer afternoon, on a train to the countryside, he said, «You’re like… life’s knocked you about but not broken you. You’re strong.»
She smiled, eyes down. For the first time, she wondered: *Maybe all of that was necessary to find myself.*
Their love story wasn’t dramatic. No grand declarations, no screaming fights. Just steady, like tracks she’d laid inside herself—no sudden turns, no fear. Sometimes she’d watch herself, checking: *Is this real, or just loneliness?*
«You look at me sometimes,» Thomas said one night, «like you’re waiting for me to slip up. I’m not Edmund. I’m terrified of disappointing you—but I’m trying to be true.»
«I’m learning to trust slowly,» she replied.
He nodded. Didn’t push.
She noticed things now—little tests. Forgotten calls, broken promises. Thomas never failed them. Not perfect, but reliable. And that mattered more than passion.
Work was solace. Colleagues respected her; her boss left her in peace. Sometimes she stayed late—not to escape evenings alone, though that had been true once. Now, it was just quiet.
One night, flipping through old photos, she found pre-wedding shots—Edmund’s arm around her, both grinning in Hyde Park. The girl in the picture seemed naive, certain love forgave everything. The woman she was now knew: forgiveness wasn’t permission.
She moved the photos to a hidden folder.
Thomas never asked. He had his own past—a divorce, no fireworks, just quiet brokenness. «We mistook habit for love,» he’d said once. «The worst trap is fearing loneliness more than loving wrong.»
Spring came early. Outside a florist, an elderly couple stood under a shared umbrella, the man patiently holding it as his wife chose tulips. Something in Eleanor’s chest loosened—not pain, but hope. *That. That’s what I want.*
That evening, she brought home an armful of tulips.
«Special occasion?» Thomas asked.
«Just Friday,» she smiled.
They drank tea, played old records. When he hugged her fromShe leaned into his embrace, eyes closed, and knew—without doubt—that this was where she belonged.