Not Your Benchmark

The cross atop the church spire gleamed coldly through the morning mist, and as the third chime of the bell swept the damp air through the carved windowpanes, I stood at the end of the red carpet. The ivory-white train of the wedding gown spread across the polished marble floor, the lace trim gently rising and falling with each breath, like clouds resting upon the ground. Bruce Young stood just three steps away, his custom-tailored suit collar crisp and without a single wrinkle. He ought to have been the happiest groom at this moment, yet when my gaze passed over his tightly pressed lips, I caught a fleeting trace of panic. From the third row of the guest seats came the sudden, delicate clash of porcelain, immediately followed by a series of gasps. I turned to follow the gaze of the crowd, and in the backlit doorway stood a slender figure. Linda White wore a mist blue chiffon gown, the hemline trailing across the red carpet with each step; the lace trim, the arrangement of pearl buttons, even the sash bow at her waist in the same hue—all mirrored the dress I wore. She strode directly to the front of the stage, seized the gilded microphone reserved for the emcee, and traced the patterns etched upon it with her fingertip. "Bruce, congratulations." That saccharine voice echoed through the church like a honey-soaked needle, painfully piercing the eardrums. Bruce Young's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, his brows furrowed into a deep brown knot, yet he said not a single word. I clenched the bouquet tightly, my fingers pressing deep into my palm; the thorns of the white roses pierced through the silk and into my skin, yet I remained oblivious even as droplets of blood seeped out. "Does this dress look nice?" Linda White spun around, the mist blue hemline fluttering and scattering a fine dust of light. Her gaze slid over my wedding gown like a wandering serpent, finally settling on my face. 'I booked the designer after three months of searching; they said this is the most fashionable bridal style this year.' Suppressed snickers rose from the back row, and whispers began to ripple through the crowd. I could imagine their expressions in that moment—surprise, disdain, and perhaps a thrill at witnessing a spectacle. 'Linda White, today is my wedding.'I heard my own voice squeezed out between clenched teeth, dry as sandpaper scraping. She tilted her head and blinked; her long lashes cast faint shadows over her eyelids, like an innocent fawn. 'I know. I dressed specially to be your bridesmaid. Don't we look like twin sisters?' "It's not like that. "I stared fixedly at the diamond brooch on her chest—identical to mine—"Take it off." "Why?" Linda White suddenly raised her voice, the microphone crackling with a sharp electrical hiss. "What I wear is none of your business! Bruce hasn't said a word!" Bruce Young suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm; his fingertips were icy cold and slick with sweat. "Tina, forget it." He lowered his head, warm breath grazing my ear. "Linda is just being childish; don't let outsiders make a joke of us." "An outsider?" I shook off his hand; the sleeve of my wedding gown slipped from my shoulder, revealing a patch of pale skin. "Wearing a counterfeit wedding dress to provoke at my own wedding—this is childish? Then what do you call malice?" "She means no harm." Bruce Young's voice deepened, heavy with evident impatience, "Enough already. Don't make a scene." I stared at him, stunned and silent. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass window, casting kaleidoscopic hues across his face. Yet the eyes I once found so tender now held only evasion and reproach. It was as if the one who had done wrong was not Linda White, who disrupted the wedding, but I, the one standing up for what I believed in. Linda White stood aside, the curve of her lips like a venomous crescent moon. At some unknown moment, the pipe organ in the church fell silent; the dust floating in the air carried a biting chill, freezing the heart with pain. The pastor cleared his throat and awkwardly pushed up his glasses: 'Uh... shall we continue?' I met Bruce Young's evasive gaze and suddenly laughed out loud. The laughter echoed through the empty church, shockingly out of place. "No need." I lifted the train of the wedding gown and turned toward the side door, each step crushing the scattered patches of light on the floor. "This marriage—I'm not going through with it." Bruce Young called my name from behind, his voice trembling with urgency. I neither looked back nor faltered in my steps. The hemline swept past the benches lining the corridor, leaving a trail of delicate lace petals—like a dream abruptly drawing its final curtain.