Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 45

-----Betty-----

I have been staring at the bracelet James gave me, he had carefully picked it out for me, then clasped around my wrist on my birthday with that half-shy, half-proud smile like it meant something. Like I meant something. Now it felt heavier than gold. Like a chain. It was the only thing conneting me to him, delicate, gleaming, silent. Just like he was now. Prom was only a few hours away.

I sat in front of the mirror, brushing my hair in slow, steady strokes. The bristles caught on the ends and tugged, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t feel much of anything anymore. Just that familiar ache in the hollow behind my ribs, like someone had scooped something vital out of me and forgot to put it back. Or maybe I’d given it away. Who knew anymore?

My makeup was scattered across the table like tiny weapons. Mascara. Concealer. Blush. Armor for the battlefield of high school memory-making. I picked up the lipstick I bought weeks ago just for tonight, a soft, barely-there rose. It reminded me of him. Of quiet things. Of whispered promises under trees. Of fingers brushing mine when no one was looking.

My dress was still hanging by the door. Muted pink. Sweet. Innocent. Hopeful. It didn’t feel like mine anymore. I felt like a ghost trying to step into the skin of a girl I no longer recognized. James hadn’t called. He hadn’t replied. No fight. No explanation. Just silence. Matt, too, had gone quiet, a different kind of quiet. Like guilt slinking behind a curtain. The silence wrapped itself around me like gauze on a fresh wound, tight, clean, suffocating. Inside, that jar I kept all my unnamed feelings in had started to rattle. Anger. Grief. Confusion. Shame. All throwing elbows. All clawing for air. I reached for the bracelet again.

Cold. Unforgiving.

Still, I slipped into my dress. The fabric was soft against my skin, hugging my body like it still believed I was someone worth dressing up. My reflection told a different story, not a girl going to prom, but a girl attending the funeral of the version of herself who once believed love could fix everything. I asked myself if I should still go.

And the answer came without hesitation.

Yes. Because I’d worked too hard. Not just on the decors or the planning, but on me. Every rehearsal. Every banner. Every sleepless night. Every fake smile. This was my prom. My moment.

So I would go. Even with this weight in my chest. Even with mascara clinging to lashes on the verge of breaking. Even if every laugh I gave tonight tasted like something I had to force down.

I would still go. Because if love was what tore me apart… maybe joy... my own joy ....could start stitching me back together.

A soft knock came at the door. Then my dad peeked in, eyes gentle. Voice even gentler. “You look beautiful.”

I turned to face him.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. My voice came out small, but steady.

We hugged. I held on just a second longer than usual, breathing him in, the faint scent of garlic and engine oil and something that could only ever be called home. Then I picked up my clutch, slipped on my shoes, and stepped into the night like a girl on fire, not the kind that blazed, but the kind that smoldered quietly, the kind no one noticed until the smoke reached the ceiling.

The venue looked like a cathedral made of light and dreams. White gauze hung from the ceilings like mist, and fairy lights blinked above us like a thousand patient stars. Paper roses bloomed across the stage, each one folded and glued by hand, proof of every late night, every glue-gunned blister. I stood there for a moment, still and quiet, just taking it all in.
My dress, muted rose-pink, shimmered under the lights. Satin like moonlight stitched into silk. But the face I saw in the window I passed didn’t belong to a girl going to prom. It belonged to someone mourning something invisible. Something no one else could see.