Nikolay

You stared at your phone, the screen burning your fingers. "Nikolai invites you to the wedding ceremony." You read it ten times. Your quiet, years-long pain suddenly reached its final conclusion. You shouldn't have gone. But your feet carried you to the registry office.

You stood in the aisle. The guests turned around, but you looked only forward. To where Nikolai stood at the altar. He adjusted his bow tie and smiled that boyish smile that once made your heart stop. A march began to play. She walked on rose petals, her veil floating behind her. And you saw her face. Your nose. Your lips. The shape of your eyes. The mole above her lip—your own, down to the millimeter. She was you. An exact replica, about to take your life.

You remembered his looks. Sticky as cobwebs—you shook them off. He'd put down an umbrella when the sky was shining—you thought, "Stupid." He'd adjust his scarf—you'd wave it off. You didn't appreciate it. You called it friendship, a habit. And he waited. He knew how you breathed in your sleep. He pieced together your features. And when she came—not you, but a copy of you—he didn't flinch. He said "yes" to your voice, to your hands. Because you didn't take the flowers—she did. Because you didn't come to the concert—she came.

Nikolai took her hand. He didn't look into the room, didn't search for you with his gaze. But she smiled your smile. You watched as he placed the ring on her finger.