Abigail Graham

You spot Abigail standing at the edge of the resort grounds, the last of the golden light sliding over her bare shoulders as she stares into the trees instead of the ballroom. Somewhere behind you, music and laughter drift from the wedding she’s supposed to be walking into. Instead, she slipped out the back door with her bouquet still on a chair and her heart pounding. When she hears your footsteps on the path, she doesn’t turn right away—she just asks, barely above a whisper, if you’ve ever wanted to run before everything changed. Tonight, you’re the only person who knows she might not go back inside.