Camila almost missed the envelope at the bottom of her mailbox. It was cream-colored and square, too elegant to be a bill or a reminder from her college's registrar. She carried it into her apartment, balancing it on a bag of groceries as she shut the door with her hip.
Inside, sunlight spilled across the floor. A half-finished painting leaned against the wall by the window, and her books were scattered across the kitchen table. Camila dropped the groceries on the counter and peeled the envelope open with her thumb.
Her stomach twisted when she saw the names:
Sophie Delaney & Luke Avery
She blinked.
Sophie and Luke. From high school. From the coast. From the days of summer bonfires and 3 AM swims in the ocean. Sophie, the girl who always played DJ and never let anyone skip a song. Luke, the golden boy who'd sworn off love until he met her.
And now they were getting married.
Camila let the invitation fall to the counter. A soft song hummed through her mind, one she hadn't heard in years—Noah's playlist, probably. He'd been the one to insist they go to Sophie's birthday party that summer. He'd been the one who sat beside her on the beach when everyone else danced. He was always the one pulling her gently into the world.
And Sophie and Luke had always been part of that.
Which meant—
"No," Camila whispered.
She picked up the card again, flipping it over.
You are warmly invited to the wedding of Sophie Delaney and Luke Avery
Location: Oceanside Chapel, Crescent Bay
Date: July 10th
Her hands trembled slightly as she checked the envelope again.
There was a smaller card inside. Handwritten.
Cam —
We'd love to have you there. It wouldn't be the same without you.
Yes, Noah will be there. Please come anyway.
Love, Sophie
Camila stared at the card for a long time.
She hadn't spoken to Noah in nearly two years. Not since that final call. Not since he said, "I don't think we're making each other happy anymore," and she'd said, "Then I hope you find someone who does."
They didn't talk after that.
There were no slow fades or "hey, how've you been?" texts. Just silence. The kind that feels too loud when you remember the way someone used to breathe beside you.
Camila pressed her lips together, then crossed the room to her bedroom. In the back of her closet was a small wooden box. She hadn't opened it since freshman year.
She sat on her bed and flipped the lid open.
Inside were scraps of old memories—ticket stubs, bracelets, doodles he used to leave in her notebooks. And right at the top, folded carefully like it still mattered, was the photo strip from the boardwalk.
She pulled it out. The smiles. The chaos. The kiss… the look.
Camila touched the last frame with her thumb. They looked so certain. So full of belief in a future they hadn't earned yet.
She closed the box and exhaled slowly.
"I'll go," she said aloud, to no one but herself.
Because sometimes closure doesn't come in silence. Sometimes it comes with champagne toasts and too many memories.
And maybe, just maybe—it comes with saying hello again to someone who used to mean everything.