I wore my best dress. I arrived early and helped Diane into her veil. I held her hands in the bridal suite and told her she looked extraordinary, and she did. She wept a little and called me her hero, and I laughed and told her not to ruin her makeup.

Then the ceremony began, and a coordinator I had never met directed me to my seat — a round table near the back of the reception hall, tucked beside the emergency exit. Around me sat a work colleague of Marcus’s whom no one seemed to know well, and two distant relatives who had driven in from out of state and seemed equally uncertain about their placement.

I told myself it was a seating chart error. That these things happen in the chaos of wedding planning. That Diane hadn’t noticed.

I smiled through cocktail hour. I smiled through dinner. I lifted my glass with everyone else when the toasts began.

Diane’s speech was warm and funny and well-prepared. She thanked Marcus’s parents for welcoming her into the family. She thanked her bridesmaids by name, recounting a specific memory with each one. She thanked the caterer for the salmon. She thanked the DJ for learning her grandmother’s favorite song. She thanked the florist for the peonies.

She did not say my name.

Not once.

I kept my smile in place until the dancing started and the lights dimmed low enough that no one could see my face clearly. Then I sat very still near my exit door and tried to understand what had just happened.

I gave it a year.

I told myself Diane was busy, that newlywed life was consuming, that the right moment to bring up the money would eventually present itself naturally. I texted her occasionally — birthdays, holidays, a funny photo that reminded me of our childhood. She responded warmly enough. She never mentioned the loan.

In month thirteen, I brought it up.

I kept the message simple and non-confrontational. Hey — I know things have been hectic, but I wanted to check in about the money I lent you for the wedding. Is there a plan for paying it back?

Her response came four hours later.

That was a gift, not a loan. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but don’t embarrass yourself.

I stared at those words for a long time. I read them again. I opened our old text thread and scrolled back to 11:42 on that evening two years before, to the words I promise I’ll pay you back by June, to the three small hearts that had seemed so sincere in the dark of my apartment.

I took a screenshot. I sent it to her without comment.

Three minutes later, she blocked me on every platform. Phone, text, email, everything.

I sat in the silence of being erased and tried to figure out what I had done wrong.

That was the silence Marcus’s call broke on a grey Tuesday two months later.

“She doesn’t know I’m calling,” he said, once I had confirmed I was listening. “And honestly, I don’t know what she’ll do when she finds out. But I’ve been sitting on this for weeks and I can’t anymore.”