Wedding Betrayal
Two days before my wedding, I was sorting through some old belongings when I suddenly remembered the time capsules Ethan Shaw and I buried ten years ago.
His expression froze the moment he heard it. He tried to talk me out of going. “It’s been so long. Someone must’ve dug them up already.”
I didn’t think much of it and went back to our old school on my own.
But at the spot where we buried it, I unearthed five metal boxes of different sizes.
Two of them were the ones Ethan and I buried a decade ago, now rusted all over.
The other three didn’t belong there—one was just as rusty, while the remaining two looked brand-new.
The old box had Rose Quinn’s name carved on it.
On top were the words: “My secret crush was a war of myself. Ethan, I wish you happiness.”
I remembered her then—an unremarkable girl who used to sit behind us.
And the two new boxes were engraved with the names Ethan Shaw and Rose Quinn.
The date marked on them was today.
On Ethan’s box, it read: “My greatest regret in life is that I can’t give you a wedding.”
On Rose’s box, it read: “My greatest regret in life is that I can’t openly wish you a happy wedding day.”