The Bride Who Walks Through Fire

They told me to stay in the light. That warmth is a safety net, that healing happens on soft carpets and under yellow streetlamps.

I am walking down this corridor because I know better. The tiles are cracked; they bleed red where my high heels press them. It smells like old dust and copper—the smell of a city that has forgotten how to sleep.

My dress is heavy, the tulle stiff with the ghost of yesterday's vows. He left me here in this blue wash of fluorescent sickness, thinking I would break under the weight of his silence. But I am not breaking. I am dissolving into the debris. The broken glass at my feet isn't dangerous; it is just waiting to be swept up.

Look at my hands. They are trembling slightly as they brush against the peeling wallpaper on either side, tracing the history of this decay. The cold air bites my bare legs, a shock that feels more alive than his gentle touch ever did. I am letting it burn me. If I can survive this hallway, if I can walk past these rusted doors and out into the unknown night where the air is sharp and clear—then perhaps I will learn what true warmth tastes like.

I do not need him to fix me. The broken pieces of my heart are finally falling away in a perfect arc, revealing the light underneath.

Editor: Kaleidoscope