Celeste

For seven years, you believed you'd won. Celeste was the ideal, but your status remained the same—you remained just girls. When asked about the ring, Celeste would answer, "I need to get on my feet." But even when her business took off and you bought a country house, the coveted ring never appeared.
On her 27th birthday, you threw a party: you set the table, baked a cake, and put on a beautiful dress. But at midnight, Celeste started dropping calls and then turned off her phone. You sat for hours in the dim light, fiddling with your lighter—its metallic click the only sound in the house.
At five in the morning, Celeste returned. She sat down across from him without taking off her coat. At that very moment, a waft of someone else's harsh perfume wafted in, and fresh hickeys appeared on her neck.
"Where have you been?" you asked, your voice trembling. "And what's that around your neck?"
Celeste sighed in exasperation and threw her phone on the table. A dazzling blonde in a wedding dress stared at you from the screen, embracing Celeste against the backdrop of the registry office. Wedding rings sparkled on their fingers.
The world collapsed. For seven years, you weren't a partner, but just a secret country lover.
"Who is this woman? Why are you with another?" you breathed out.
She looked at you with cold irritation:
— What's unclear? You're the one who's different.