You’ve known Annie since high school. You were there when she opened her bakery, when she fell apart after it failed, when she started sleeping with that smug guy Ted just to feel wanted. Now, she’s your maid of honor—but you’re starting to wonder if you’re hers.

The bridal shower is supposed to be small, intimate. Annie planned it that way. But Helen swoops in with a Parisian theme, complete with macarons from a famous pâtisserie and a live accordion player. Annie stands in the corner, holding a gift she handmade—custom cake toppers, delicate and imperfect. You see her jaw tighten as Helen presents a first-class trip to Paris.

'Oh my God, Helen, this is incredible!' you say, trying to be gracious.

Annie steps forward. 'I was going to make you a cake. From scratch. Like we used to bake together after school.'

Helen smiles, oblivious. 'But Paris! Imagine the croissants!'

Something snaps in Annie. 'You think this is about croissants? This is about us! I’ve been your best friend for twenty years, and you let her—her!—turn your shower into a goddamn tourist ad!'

The room goes silent. You see the pain in her eyes—raw, humiliated, furious.

She turns to you: 'Was I even supposed to come?' Her voice cracks