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“That sorrowful look doesn't suit you, lady Herta. Or should I say, madam Herta?” A sweet voice breaks through both the silence in the bridal room and Herta's reverie.
The bride looks up towards the direction of that voice she knew and held so dear in her heart.
“Cyrene.” The soon-to-be married woman states dully, heart wrenching under her cold expression.
“The only and only!” Cyrene exclaims, a radiant smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
Just keep smiling, Cyrene chants to herself.
“Really? Are you trying to rub salt on the wound?” Herta deadpans, frowning towards the woman standing over her.
Cyrene is as enchanting as always. She's dressed in a modest dress, fitting of a married woman. It's not designed to catch attention at a wedding, where all eyes are on the bride's gown.
But Cyrene has never failed to attract wandering eyes, no matter what she wears, even if she's already married.
It irks Herta.
It irks her, whenever she sees a man daring to so much as approach Cyrene.
It irks her even more that she can't ever be loud about her displeasure after this, not without risking Cyrene's reputation as well.
“Rub salt on what wound?” Cyrene questions, a brow quirking up. As if she doesn't know why Herta looks and feels the way that she does.
“You know what I mean.” Herta snaps, wishing Cyrene would just...stop with the act already.
She stands up abruptly, wanting to go anywhere but stay in this suffocating room.
“W-wait!” The pink haired woman reaches a hand out to stop the veiled woman, the wedding ring on her finger glinting.
It's a reminder.
A reminder of Cyrene's marital status.
Of what Herta will soon be in a matter of maybe half an hour.
A nameless bride, all her achievements and belongings her husband's.
An accessory for a man.
A woman whose worth would be measured on whether or not she could give birth to an heir.
“This will be our final time covering to each other as Herta and Cyrene for a long time, so why can't you be just a little bit more honest, Herta?” Cyrene smiles gently, if not a little melancholy even as Herta refuses to look into her eyes.
“Just for this special occasion, why can't we have one final goodbye instead of arguing?” She goes on, her desperation bleeding into her voice.
“Because there is no need for it.”
A brusque voice — one that Herta's never used around Cyrene — one that neither of them recognise answers.
Herta finally looks into Cyrene's eyes.
And, as always, she's struck with the thought of how different life would be if they weren't both born women.
Maybe, if she was born a man, things would have turned out differently.
If she'd been born a man, perhaps she would have been able to love loudly instead of tamping down everything she'd ever felt for her friend.
“It's about time for you to leave now, Cyre-”
“Don't hold it in, tell me.” Cyrene interrupts, a pleading expression painted on her face.
Tell her what? Tell her about how Herta...how she feels?
Maybe it's the uncharacteristic lack of smile on the woman's face. Maybe it's the unshed tears welling up in them. Maybe it's the downcast expression.
Whatever it is, it prompts Herta to say something, do something, anything, before she signs her life away.
“I...think I loved you, Cyrene.”
The words escape her lips unbidden.
She lets them.
Rare, for a woman so careful of her every word.
“I think I loved you in a way that scared me. Maybe I still do. Maybe I'll regret everything I'm telling you right now. But it was enchanting to meet you, I'm sure of that, at the very least.”
Cyrene's eyes widen imperceptively at the words, the vulnerable display of emotions, her hands rush to cling onto Herta's, the mantra of keeping a smile forgotten.
“I don't want to walk that altar without telling you this — I...I don't want to marry that man. I don't want to be chained to him.”
“I want to marry you.”
“I don't want to spend my life beside a man. I want to spend it with you. I want you. No one else.”
A dry chuckle escapes Herta's lips.
“But I can't, shouldn't want you this way, should I?”
There's hopelessness in the women's eyes.
The grip Cyrene has on Herta's arms are firm — not rough —never rough.
“After all, you're already married, and I'm about to be.”
The tears in Cyrene's eyes are falling freely now.
In the near future, when asked about why the madam's eyes were red from crying at her long-time companion's wedding, Cyrene'll probably laugh it off and say she was just glad for her friend.
And everyone will believe it.
Except for the bride — no, the woman that's staring at her right now.
The chime of a bell reaches them, in that distant place of a bride's preparation room.
Ah. So it's time.
“For some reason, I feel like when you walk that altar, it really will be the end of everything.”
A feeble attempt at normalcy.
“It didn't feel so horrible back when I was getting married,” Cyrene continues, just barely choking out the words.
There's glass shards in her throat. Or feels like there is, at least.
Herta doesn't say anything, not for what feels like an eternity.
Do something. Do something. Do anything.
And so, ever so slowly, her hands shakily lift Cyrene's downturned face.
She lifts her veil.
There's a soft, barely there brush of their lips before she pulls back and walks away, leaving the woman she'd adored for so long.
A final farewell, to the childhood spent with the spirited pink haired girl.
A final farewell, to the hazy golden afternoons together as rebellious teenagers.
A final farewell to the married woman, to the one who had always been a ‘what-if’, and forever stay as one.
To the one whose beauty would forever be burned into Herta's memory.
The morning ‘Madam Herta’ was wed had been oh so very full of sunshine.
If only the bride had felt as warm as she should have felt inside as she felt outwardly.