I’m 32, my name is Harper, and I still can’t understand what happened on my wedding night.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be here, I would have laughed until I cried.
But it’s real, and it is terrifying in a way that makes my bones feel hollow.
I met Ryan when we were 19, in a gross dorm hallway that always smelled like pizza and cheap beer.
He was the loud one, the kind of guy who made everyone feel comfortable, and he could whip up a party in a second.
I was the quiet girl clutching a cracked phone, pretending to text so I didn’t have to talk to strangers.
Ryan bumped my shoulder and said, “You look like you’re about to call the cops on the fun,” and for some reason, I laughed.
Four years we were together.
Four years of stolen kisses behind library shelves, shouting matches in parking lots, ignored red flags, and that kind of reckless love you only survive in your 20s.
I thought he was it, the endgame, the person I would grow old and boring with.
