Overruled

The air in the opulent ballroom was thick with the scent of wild gardenias and jasmine, a fragrance that had once been the very essence of comfort, now a suffocating reminder of what was lost. On the dance floor, bathed in the soft, dying light of the setting sun, Kate swayed in her husband’s arms, her hazel eyes sparkling with a joy that was no longer meant for me. Every beat of the wedding music was a hammer against my chest, each note a painful echo of a love I couldn’t claim.

My mother’s concerned voice cut through the haze of my agony, a gentle prod to the raw wound in my heart. "Why didn't you profess how much you love her?" she whispered, her gaze fixed on the happy couple. I clenched my jaw, the words a burning retort in my throat.

"I can never give her what she wanted. I am not what she needed," I managed, the confession tasting like ash. The lie was for her, for her perfect, sun-drenched happiness. But as I turned to my mother, the dam broke. "Mom, I have to go."

Her embrace was fleeting, a quick kiss on my cheek, then the gentle command: "You have to be polite, anak. You have to say goodbye."

Each step towards the dance floor was a descent into a lifetime of impending depression. Their song ended, and Kate, radiant in ivory, saw me. That familiar signal – 'one minute' – was a cruel delay. My heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat against the urge to flee. I had to leave, for good, before my sanity fractured. As she walked towards me, every inch of her stunning, flawless, I knew this goodbye would be the hardest lie I’d ever tell.