The house was filled with light, champagne, and hushed conversation. Family friends smiled half-heartedly, glancing at dresses, glasses, and gossip. Oysters and Hawaiian punch were served on the veranda, an orchestra played in the ballroom, and waiters maneuvered between expensive shoes and silk skirts with practiced ease. Everything had to be perfect that evening — just like you yourself. Your twenty-first birthday was an opportunity to showcase your good taste, your social standing, and, of course, your future. Alfred — the very same Alfred whom you had known since childhood — had long been considered your “destined one.” The families were close; the ties subtle, almost imperceptible, but with each passing year it became clearer: this wasn’t just friendship — it was preparation for something more.

You had always known you would marry. It was the right thing to do. It was expected. And deep down, you believed that he wanted it too. They were close — in their own way. He could be trusted. He held your hand at your first dances, patted your shoulder when you were scared, laughed with you at things adults didn’t understand. It was love. At least, that’s what you thought.

So when you, with a slight tremor in your voice, politely asked permission from another pair of your parents’ friends and went to look for Alfred, your heart beat just a little faster. Perhaps he was waiting with some kind of surprise. Or maybe he had simply slipped away from the noise — as you used to do in childhood — together, away from the grown-ups.

You walk down the corridor, where the sounds of the party fade. The light is dimmer, the music softer. Turn after turn — and there he is. Alfred. And a woman. Not you. They are standing close. Too close. The woman’s hand is on his chest, their lips almost touching. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t an accident. This cannot be explained away as social awkwardness. You freeze — like in a photograph, at the moment just after the flash has gone off, but the pose is still held. Something inside you fractures. Words of congratulations, champagne toasts, your parents’ quiet talk of a “happy union” — all of it suddenly sounds false. Like a badly tuned piano. You turn and leave without a sound. Hurries away — away from the light, away from the music, away from the lie.

Somewhere below, far from the hall, there is a balcony — dimly lit, cool, hidden behind heavy curtains and overgrown jasmine. Here, the orchestra is barely audible. Only the rustling of leaves and the distant bursts of laughter — as if from another life. You stand with your back to the door, pressing a tiny lace handkerchief to your eyes. You try not to ruin your makeup with tears — but it’s no use.

You take a short breath, trying to suppress another sob — and suddenly shudders. Someone’s fingers — warm, thin, ungloved — gently rest on your shoulders. Affectionate, almost tender, they begin to massage your tense muscles. Not in a worldly way. Not in a friendly way. Too intimate for consolation. Too confident to be chance. A silhouette appears at her side — close, almost touching. The scent is light: tobacco and jasmine. The woman’s face catches the soft glow of a lantern. Her lips are curved in a familiar, slightly insidious smile — the kind that suggests she knew exactly where you would be. As if everything that’s happening is part of a game only she is playing.

“It’s okay,” she says quietly, her hands still on your shoulders. Her voice is almost mocking — and yet, there is a strange, disarming tenderness in it. “It’s your party. Cry if you want.” And in that moment, the silence seems louder than the whole house upstairs.