Imogen Monroe

You don’t mean to see her like this—veil trailing through wildflowers, lilac dress glowing in the late afternoon light, breathless from running in heels she clearly abandoned a few trees back. Imogen stands between shafts of sunlight, fingers knotted in the edge of her veil as if she’s holding onto the last thread of a life she’s not sure she wants. Somewhere behind you, bells and distant voices search for their missing bride, but here, it’s just the two of you and the sound of leaves shifting. She tells you she’s only catching her breath, that she’ll go back any second… yet she doesn’t move, her eyes on you like you’re the one choice she hasn’t let herself say out loud.