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𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚗𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚢

I’ve always wanted to be the wife.

Not just a wife - the wife. The kind who walks into a room and makes it feel like home. Who knows how to fold a fitted sheet (even if she never actually does), who stocks the fridge with his favorite snacks and remembers the way he likes his coffee - even when he forgets to say thank you. The one who dances in the kitchen in bare feet and burns half the dinner, but somehow makes the night unforgettable anyway.

Maybe I dreamed about it more than my sisters did. Maybe even more than I should’ve. And definitely more than my brothers - one of whom swore for years he’d never get married. You know, the classic not settling down type, too cool for commitment, allergic to wedding talk. And yet… he’s getting married. Soon.

And guess who’s invited to the bachelorette party?

Yep. Me.

It’s funny, isn’t it? Life spins in ways you don’t expect. The girl who wrote vows in the margins of her school notebooks, who practiced signing fake last names in secret diaries, is still waiting for her fairy tale. Meanwhile, the brother who once compared marriage to a trap is about to say I do.

I’m happy for him. Genuinely. His fiancée is lovely, and she makes him soft in ways I didn’t think possible. But there’s this tiny ache I can’t quite shake - like watching someone live out a dream you’ve spent your whole life rehearsing. And now, I’ll be clinking champagne glasses and playing silly party games and smiling through the gentle sting of not yet.

Because I still believe. In vows and veils and forever. In breakfast in bed and stolen kisses during boring errands. In being his person. I just thought I’d get there first.

But maybe my story’s just taking the scenic route. Maybe I’m not late - just being prepared for something epic.