The champagne flute felt heavy in Amelia's hand, despite being mostly empty. She swirled the remaining liquid, watching the bubbles slowly dissipate. The ballroom hummed with forced gaiety, a soundtrack to her own internal quiet. She hadn't wanted to come, hadn't wanted to subject herself to this – a mutual friend's wedding – but Sarah had insisted. "It'll be fun!" Sarah had chirped. Amelia sighed, the sound barely audible over the band's rendition of "Here Comes the Bride." Her shoulders slumped forward, and she poked at the floral arrangement on the table with a fingernail.
The air grew thick, and the music seemed to amplify her isolation. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to flee, to disappear into the anonymity of the parking lot. She caught sight of a familiar face across the room, and her stomach clenched. It was him. Mark.
He was laughing, surrounded by friends, looking effortlessly put-together. Amelia quickly averted her gaze, her heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. She took a large gulp of the champagne, the coldness offering a momentary, superficial relief.