When Amy handed me a sealed envelope just before the ceremony, I assumed it was something sweet—maybe a heartfelt note for Leo. But what followed wasn’t the touching moment I expected. It turned our celebration into a storm of silence, confusion, and heartbreaking truth.
Looking back, I should have sensed something wasn’t right when Amy asked to speak with me in private.
She was already dressed in her gown, the silk catching the light like water under moonlight. Her hair was pinned up, pearls threaded through like tiny stars. But her hands—her hands were cold as stone.
“I need a favor,” she said softly, her tone steady but distant.
She reached into her small clutch and pulled out a plain white envelope, placing it in my hand as if it might break—or explode.
“Give this to Leo. After the ceremony. Not before. Not during. After, okay?”
My heart gave a nervous flutter. I looked at her, trying to read more than her words.
“Amy… sweetheart, is everything alright? Just nerves?”
Her head shook gently. “He needs to hear this from you. It has to be you.”
There was something about her voice—quiet, unwavering—that told me this wasn’t impulsive. It was settled. Already lived through in her mind.
I turned the envelope over, feeling the thin weight of it. A page or two, no more. Nothing alarming. Nothing visible. But something in my chest tightened.
“What’s in it?” I asked softly.
Amy didn’t reply. She simply gave a small nod, not really to me—more like to the moment. Then she walked away, her gown trailing behind her like a farewell.
I stared down at the envelope in my hands. It felt innocent. Ordinary. But something in my gut whispered otherwise.
I almost opened it. Just a quick glance. My finger traced the seal.
Was this fear? A hidden cry for help? Or something else entirely?
And then, like an old memory drifting up from the bottom of a still lake, I remembered a moment from two months ago. Amy sitting at my kitchen table. We were sipping tea from mismatched mugs, crumbs from store-bought biscuits and my homemade pie scattered between us. She wore a gray cardigan, sleeves pulled over her hands even though it was warm.
“How do you know when you can really trust someone?” she asked out of the blue.
I looked up, a little surprised. “When they show you who they are—again and again. Not with promises. With choices.”
She nodded, earrings catching the afternoon light. But she didn’t smile.
“And what if their choices are confusing?” she asked.
I remember chuckling softly.
“Then you wait,” I told her. “People always show you, eventually.”