He's there.

Anthony's POV

First of August, twenty fifteen.

He's there. He's right beside me, his cologne radiating off of him, the colour of his suit matching mine, his smile lighting up the cathedral.

He's there. His hair styled neatly, his jacket not bearing a single wrinkle upon it, his shoes polished and shining.

He's there. His back erect, his breathing regulated, his head high, his figure straight.

He's there. He's perfect. And he... he is hers.

I see her walking down the aisle with a bouquet of white roses in her hand, the white of her dress glittering, shining, making her the most beautiful woman in the whole room; her blonde hair is tied in a neat bun at the base of her neck, a few strands of hair coming loose in an elegant way over her forehead. Her smile is radiant, happiness almost flowing out of her limbs.

I see him looking at her, staring at her, swallowing up her narrow frame with shimmering eyes. I notice the slight tremble of his left leg at the sight of her and I clench my fist. I swallow down the lump in my throat and manage to smile more broadly although I am breaking in agony on the inside.

She takes the final short strides just in front of him and he steps forward. The altar is in front of them, the insides of the Cathedral glowing and almost chanting out joyful hymns, promises of eternal Love and happiness.

People are looking at them in awe, in the end, who could've put it better: A man and a woman, nearly each other's age, who have known each other for so many years. The groom's best man being his best friend of twenty five years and even the other half of the most popular British duo. The happy ending. The perfect life.

My being shatters all over again when I hear them exchanging their vows. In sickness and in health, through thick and thin, until Death do them part. They 'do'. My grin is so wide my cheeks hurt, tears are threatening to spill from my damp eyes. This is the exquisite paradox, I think.

As the choir sings out religious chants, my soul screams out breathless, silent tortured cries of ineffable sadness. I can feel my heart breaking underneath the bones of my ribcage, I can feel the strings of it almost snapping. I can feel the blood in my veins rush to the speed of light and take all of its time, at the same moment. My head is spinning and I dampen in my clothes. I think, Death must be close.

My previous thought seems even more possible when I see them slide their wedding rings onto one another's fingers. The small jewelries are sparkling as well as Declan's smile. He looks back at me, still holding his new wife's delicate, thin hand, and puts his other thumb up.

As I smile back, I can feel the first tears of sorrow slide down my impossibly warm cheeks and I know, Dec must think these are tears of happiness. Let him think. He will never know the true nature of these salty drops of water, and he better not.

From near me, I see a small movement and take a glance at Lisa who smiles kindly at me. 'I love you,' she mouths to me. I nod. I love Dec, I tell myself. Only myself.

Heartbreak hurts like a fucking bitch.

*

Whisky cannot drown out my anguish, but at least it can make my vision blurry enough not to be able to properly gaze at the newly-wed couple having their first dance, right in front of me.

My death grip on my glass makes my knuckles turn as white as the pain shooting through my body and soul. I have become a shade darker than black, almost invisible amongst the crowd of people surrounding me.

Anne is smiling proudly at the sight of her son interlaced with the love of his life, and only seeing her this happy makes me want to crawl under the surface of the Earth and never come out ever again. The Donnelly family is standing proud and joyful, their faces showing nothing else but pure bliss.

Lisa's hand is in mine, her fingers softly rubbing over the back of my hand. My palms are sweaty and my head is banging. The slow music rips through my eardrums just the way screeching would. I am freezing and boiling at the same time. I am going to fucking die.

I see him moving slowly, almost clumsily on the dance floor, his right hand on Alison's waist, his left hand holding hers. He looks at her as if nothing else existed but her, as if all creatures of this earth have been damned except her. He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

Our eyes lock for what seems like both an eternal and ephemeral amount of time; the world around me silences at once, all that matters in that instant being the shining gleam in the pit of his almost nefarious eyes. He looks at me, stares at me and I can feel the fire in the pit of my stomach coming alive again, roaring, crackling, destroying. I love him.

He does not smile, he does not raise his eyebrow, he does not stop looking at me. But I do. I glare at the floor as I feel his piercing gaze burning through my body, just like it has been doing for as long as I can remember.

He's there. He's right in front of me, his cologne growing faint, his suit as blue as it was a few hours ago, his smile as wide as it was since the start of the day.

He's there. His hair ruffled and slightly damp from previous occasional nervous sweat, his jacket lying on his chair, his shoes not so shiny anymore.

He's there. His back still erect, his feet clumsy but sure, his figure moving around under the mesmerizing violet light.

He's perfect. And he... he is hers.