7. The Morning After

I woke before sunrise, not because I'd slept well, but because sleep had refused to claim me at all. Every time exhaustion finally dragged my eyelids shut, I found myself back in her room, standing in that fragile silence with my forehead resting against Celine's. I could still feel the warmth of her breath mingling with mine, still hear the softness in her voice when she'd whispered my name as though it were something precious she wasn't supposed to say aloud. There had been uncertainty in her eyes, but something else too—something that mirrored the chaos raging inside me. Relief. Fear. Longing. They had all existed together in that single look, and now they haunted me more than the kiss itself. My fingers drifted unconsciously to my lips, tracing them as if they could somehow hold on to the memory before it slipped away. They still tingled, still remembered the impossible tenderness of that moment, and instead of fading with the night, the memory had rooted itself deeper inside me. It was growing, consuming every quiet corner of my mind until I couldn't tell where reality ended and my thoughts of her began.

Outside my bedroom window, dawn slowly unfolded across the sky, streaking it with pale shades of blue and pink. The neighborhood was peaceful, untouched by the chaos waiting to erupt inside our house once wedding preparations began again. Birds sang somewhere beyond the trees, and a cool breeze nudged the curtains, but none of it reached me. Inside, everything felt heavy. My room seemed smaller than it had yesterday, the walls pressing closer, trapping me with the truth I was too afraid to name. Last night hadn't been a dream. It hadn't been wishful thinking or another fantasy born from a dangerous crush. It had happened. I had crossed a line I had promised myself I never would, and somehow, instead of feeling regret, all I wanted was to be back in that room with her again.

What had we done?

The question echoed through my mind, but even as it formed, I knew it wasn't the one keeping me awake. The kiss wasn't the problem anymore. It was what came after. What happened when breakfast was served and we had to pretend nothing had changed? What happened when my sister smiled at the woman I'd kissed only hours before? What happened when Celine reached for Aaliyah's hand in front of everyone while I stood there pretending my heart wasn't splintering?

No.

The better question was—

What were we going to do now?

A sharp knock on my bedroom door shattered the silence.

"Nora?"

My entire body tensed.

I'd recognize Aaliyah's voice anywhere.

"Mom wants everyone downstairs."

Panic shot through me so suddenly I almost knocked my phone off the bed. My heart raced as though she'd somehow discovered everything, as though she'd opened the door and found the truth written all over my face. For one terrifying second, I imagined Celine had confessed during the night. I imagined whispered arguments, shattered engagement rings, accusations waiting just outside my bedroom door.

But Aaliyah sounded normal.

More than normal.

She sounded... happy.

Cheerful.

Excited about centerpieces and seating charts and the wedding she believed was still moving exactly as planned.

The guilt hit harder than any accusation could have.

"Coming," I managed, hoping my voice didn't shake enough for her to notice.

Her footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving me alone again with the silence.

I sat on the edge of my bed for another moment before forcing myself to stand. My reflection in the mirror looked like someone I barely recognized. My hair was tangled from hours of tossing and turning, dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my lips were still slightly swollen—not enough for anyone else to notice, I hoped, but enough that I noticed.

Enough that I remembered why.

I quickly pulled on an oversized sweatshirt, as though layers of fabric could somehow hide everything happening underneath my skin. I twisted my hair into the messiest bun I could manage, splashed cold water across my face, and stared at the girl looking back at me.

"You look guilty," I whispered to my reflection.

The girl in the mirror didn't argue.

Because she was.

And the worst part wasn't the guilt.

It was the tiny, selfish part of me that, despite knowing exactly how wrong this was, was already wondering when I'd see Celine again.

Breakfast was louder than usual.

Wedding planners crowded the dining room with fabric books, invitation samples, flower catalogs, and laptops.

My mother loved every second of it.

"This ivory is warmer," she declared.

"No," Aaliyah laughed. "It's literally white."

Across the table...

Celine sat perfectly composed.

If I hadn't known what happened last night...

I would've believed nothing had changed.

She was discussing seating charts.

Answering questions.

Smiling politely.

She didn't look at me once.

Not once.

It stung more than I expected.

Had I imagined everything?

Had last night meant more to me than it had to her?

Maybe she'd woken up and regretted it.

Maybe she wished she'd never—

"Nora?"

I blinked.

Everyone was looking at me.

"What?"

"The photographer wants to know if you'll handle the engagement slideshow."

"Oh."

Right.

Photography.

The one thing I was actually good at.

"Sure."

"Perfect," my mother smiled.

I nodded quickly, keeping my eyes on my coffee.

Anything but her.

I

It lasted exactly twelve minutes. I counted them without meaning to, each passing minute stretching longer than the last as I concentrated on everything except the woman sitting across the breakfast table. I focused on the coffee growing cold in my mug, the clinking of silverware against porcelain, my mother's animated discussion with the florist, and the endless stack of color samples spread across the dining table. Anything to keep my eyes from drifting toward Celine. I told myself I was stronger than this, that one kiss couldn't possibly undo every ounce of self-control I'd spent years building. Twelve minutes. That was all the discipline I had left. Then curiosity won the battle my conscience had been fighting since dawn. My gaze lifted almost involuntarily, and at that exact moment, hers did too.

Our eyes met across the crowded room.

No smile.

No greeting.

No acknowledgment that the night before had changed everything.

Yet something invisible passed between us all the same, something so quiet no one else at the table could have noticed. It was recognition wrapped in longing, threaded through with guilt neither of us knew how to carry. There was a question in her eyes, one I couldn't answer. Are you alright? Do you regret it? Are we pretending? My heartbeat stumbled against my ribs. She was the first to look away, lowering her eyes to the wedding binder in front of her as if studying the seating chart required every ounce of her concentration. I followed a second later, staring into my untouched coffee. Even after the moment ended, my pulse refused to slow. It throbbed beneath my skin for several long minutes, making every breath feel heavier than the last.

By noon, the house had transformed into organized chaos. Relatives poured through the front door carrying suitcases and garment bags, greeting one another with hugs loud enough to shake the walls. Delivery boxes lined every hallway, forcing people to squeeze sideways to pass. Someone had connected a speaker in the living room, cheerful love songs floating through the house with relentless optimism. Children darted between adults, chasing each other around stacks of decorations despite repeated warnings not to touch anything. The florist arrived carrying buckets of white roses. The caterer called with last-minute questions. Every room buzzed with conversations layered over one another until it became impossible to think.

I couldn't breathe in all that noise.

Slipping my camera over my shoulder, I quietly escaped through the back door without telling anyone where I was going. The garden welcomed me with silence. Behind the old brick wall, the celebration faded into a distant murmur, replaced by birdsong and the whisper of leaves swaying in the breeze. Here, everything felt slower. Safer. The climbing roses had reached full bloom, their crimson petals spilling over the weathered bricks in untamed clusters. Sunlight filtered through the branches above, scattering warm patches of gold across the stone pathway.

I lifted my camera, grateful for something familiar.

Photography had always made more sense than conversation. A photograph never lied. It captured exactly what existed in front of the lens, untouched by excuses or half-truths. People, on the other hand, hid behind carefully chosen words. They smiled when they were breaking apart. They promised forever while wondering if tomorrow would change everything. Cameras couldn't do that.

I adjusted the focus ring.

Clicked.

Another angle.

Another frame.

"You always hide behind that camera."

My hands jerked so violently I nearly dropped it.

I turned.

Celine stood several feet away beneath the shade of the climbing roses, her hands tucked into the pockets of a cream cardigan. The afternoon light softened her features, making her seem almost unreal against the garden backdrop.

"I wasn't hiding," I replied, though even I didn't believe it.

One corner of her mouth lifted.

"No?"

Her eyes drifted around the empty garden before returning to me.

"Interesting place to accidentally end up."

A helpless sigh escaped me.

"I came here because it's quiet."

"So did I."

Silence settled between us.

Not awkward.

Not comfortable.

Heavy.

The kind of silence that carried every conversation we were too afraid to have aloud.

She took a slow step closer, careful not to close the distance completely.

"I'm sorry."

The apology caught me completely off guard.

"For what?"

"For pretending this morning."

I looked down at the camera hanging around my neck.

"You had to."

"I know."

"It still hurt."

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment, as though hearing those words out loud wounded her more than she expected.

"I know."

There was so much sadness packed into those two words that my chest tightened painfully.

"I wanted to look at you," I admitted before I could stop myself.

A quiet laugh escaped her, but there was no amusement in it.

"I wanted to do a lot of things."

Our eyes met again, and for a moment neither of us remembered how to breathe.

"This is getting harder," she confessed.

"It's been one day."

"I know."

"So what happens when it's a month?"

Neither of us answered.

Because neither of us believed this feeling would disappear.

The silence stretched until she spoke again, her voice barely louder than the breeze moving through the roses.

"I've spent years making careful decisions. Every step of my life has been planned. Every choice has been sensible. Predictable."

"You seem good at it."

"I was."

The single word made me lift my head.

"Was?"

A bittersweet smile crossed her face.

"Then you walked into your mother's living room."

Heat rushed into my cheeks.

"You can't blame me for that."

"I'm not."

She looked directly at me, vulnerability replacing the confidence she wore around everyone else.

"I'm blaming myself."

The breeze shifted between us, carrying the sweet scent of roses. Almost without thinking, she lifted her hand toward me, instinct overpowering reason for one reckless second. Her fingers stopped halfway through the space between us. I watched the hesitation spread across her face before she slowly lowered her hand again, curling it back into the pocket of her cardigan.

That tiny movement hurt far more than it should have.

"I keep forgetting," she whispered.

"Forgetting what?"

"That I can't."

My throat tightened.

"I keep forgetting too."

Before either of us could say another word, voices drifted from the house.

"Celine!"

Then another.

"Aaliyah! We need you and Celine!"

Reality crashed back around us.

She took one reluctant step backward.

Then another.

"I should go."

"Yeah."

Neither of us moved.

"I meant what I said last night," she said quietly. "This changes everything."

"It already has."

A sad smile touched her lips.

"I don't know how to do this."

I gave the only honest answer I had.

"I don't either."

She turned toward the patio, but halfway to the door she stopped and looked back just once. It wasn't dramatic or desperate. It was simply a quiet glance filled with everything neither of us could safely put into words. Then she disappeared into the house.

I remained among the roses, gripping my camera until my fingers ached. After several moments, I lifted it again and pointed the lens toward the patio doorway she'd just walked through. I adjusted the focus automatically, though my vision blurred for reasons that had nothing to do with the camera. The shutter clicked once.

The image showed an empty doorway bathed in warm afternoon light.

No people.

No movement.

No evidence that anyone had been there at all.

Yet somehow, as I stared at the photograph on the screen, it felt like the most honest picture I had ever taken. It captured exactly what my heart looked like now, a place where someone had just been, where their absence lingered louder than their presence ever could.