At dinner last night, when my parents were lecturing me about my upcoming wedding, my mind kept drifting away. I was trapped, caught in a web of my own thoughts spinning over and over again. I found an imaginary refuge in his facial features, a perfect way to block out everything else around me. I tried to envision what his voice and laughter sound like, and I spent far too much time giving him made-up names, wondering which one might fit him the best. When my mother finally snapped me out of it, I claimed I was daydreaming about my wedding. It was still rude that I hadn’t been listening, but it was better for them to think it was because of William than for me to acknowledge the truth. I keep hoping against all hope that I might see him again, a wish both dangerous and childish on my part. I have no rights to try and get to know a man other than William; the punishment for it would not be worth the risk. "Miss Clay," a voice calls out to me, shattering the picture of him I was drafting somewhere in my reverie.
