Elena was there.....
She wasn't dressed for a wedding. No soft colors, no attempt to blend into celebration. Just a clinical beige suit, sharply tailored, the kind that erased personality rather than expressed it. Her hands were clasped neatly in front of her, posture composed to the point of unnerving stillness.
She looked less like a guest… and more like an intrusion that had learned how to stand quietly.
No drink in her hand. No plate in front of her. No laughter, no participation.
Only observation.
Like she had come for something else entirely.
Our eyes met.
She didn't smile.
She didn't acknowledge me.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly—just enough to feel intentional. Her gaze shifted, locking onto the yellow ribbon woven into my hair.
It lingered there.
Not with envy.
Not with resentment.
But with a kind of unsettling precision.
A clinical fascination, as though she were studying a specimen she had only just classified.
