But the moon is still there. Full and steady and unchanged.
It's strange how that helps. How something so far away can feel like the only solid thing left.
When I see stars, I think of Dad. Of Jake. The people I loved who became part of the sky.
But the moon—the moon makes me think of something else. Someone else.
It makes me feel less alone. Because no matter where I am, no matter how lost I am, he might be looking up at it too.
And for just a second, the distance between us doesn't feel so impossible.
When I go back in,the ceremony is reaching its peak.
Speeches blur together, applause swelling and fading like waves.
Wes squeezes my hand as his name is announced, pride radiating off him. I stand when he does. I clap when everyone else claps.
Onstage, he thanks everyone he's supposed to. The studio. The investors. The team.
Then he turns toward me.
"And of course," he says, smiling wide, "none of this would mean as much without the woman I love."
The room shifts. Cameras pivot. A murmur ripples through the audience.
"And I'm proud to say," he continues, "that she's agreed to spend her life with me."
Applause erupts.
I don't remember standing. I don't remember moving.
The heat of the lights. The sound crashing over me. My smile locks into place automatically.
I didn't say yes.
But I'm not stopping it either.
The moment carries me whether I want it to or not. Momentum is a powerful thing. It sweeps you along, convinces you that resistance is futile, that silence is the same as consent.
I keep smiling. My face is starting to ache from it.
By the time it's over, my head is pounding.
The room feels too small, the air too thick. Wes is basking, still shaking hands, already moving on to the next conversation, the next opportunity.
The reporter from before finds him and the two of them start chatting.
She's pretty in that effortless, expensive way—blonde hair that looks sun-kissed but probably cost a fortune, legs that go on forever in a dress that fits like it was sewn onto her body.
She has the kind of smile designed to disarm. The kind Wes responds to. I watch them for a moment, then realize I don't have it in me anymore.
Bone-deep, soul-tired exhaustion takes over. The performance is done. My feet are actively plotting my murder in these heels. My face hurts from smiling—I've basically been a human emoji for three hours straight. And I've said "thank you"and"so surreal"and"I'm so grateful"so many times I'm starting to sound like a malfunctioning chatbot.
I need to leave.
Now.
Before I do something stupid like cry or scream or tell the truth.
