You breathe a slow steady breath through your nostrils, as the rabbi turns his head to Lucas, and asks the most explicable question.

"Lucas Douglas, do آپ take this woman to be your wife, to live together in holy matrimony, to love her, to honor her, to comfort her, and to keep her in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as آپ both shall live?"

He beams a bright, loving smile at you.

"I do."

آپ lose your focus, falling into the apparent colour difference of his eyes from the mere bright stained glass of the church. And, they remind آپ of why you're questioning this. There was nothing behind them. No fascination, curiousity, excitement, intelligence, یا fierce desire.

The rabbi gives a questioning glance at you, then continues.

"Lisa Cuddy, do آپ take this man to be your husband, to live together in holy matrimony, to love him, to honor him, to comfort him, and to keep him in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as آپ both shall live?"

Your eyes dart from pew to pew, searching for him. Wilson sits there, focused and compelled. He gives آپ a sorrowful smile, watching آپ stare blankly at the empty space beside him.

"Ms. Cuddy?"

The rabbi questions, slowly. Lucas gently rubs your bare arm, taking your assiduity from the empty seat.

"I...-"

People begin to scoot up in the pews, making squeaky sounds come from the hard wood. Shiny and mooth pieces of your hair sway down across your forehead, as آپ bend your head for a moment toward the red carpet floor. Teeth begin to bite the inside of your dry mouth, when آپ look back up.

"I can't...-"

His once gleaming smile, begins to turn into a desolate frown.

آپ contine, shakily.

"I can't marry... you, Lucas."

The guests begin to turn their heads to one another, already gossiping; He gives a knowing look, and nods, clenching and unclenching his jaws back and forth.

"Here...."

آپ say; handing him the bouquet of white calla lilies.

Everyone stares at you. Watching آپ walk down the isle with no one on your arm, to the far right corner of the 4th row pew.

"Where is he?"

آپ ask Wilson, lip syncing.

"Apartment."

He جوابات you, barely audible to hear.










You're not exactly sane at the moment, you've come to realise. Speeding down a two lane road, isn't what آپ call insane, but the reason why you're doing it might be. He was going to be there, he wasn't going out of town, یا leaving and never coming back. Yet, here آپ were, driving moronically.

The chill of the wind sweeps under your forever long gown. Causing cold ہنس bumps to introduce themselves to the nervous ہنس bumps آپ had already had. آپ enter the hall outside the loft, the loft آپ had intended on buying. One hard inhale of air and your knuckles met themselves with the hard white two double doors, knocking loudly.

Two منٹ went by, and no answer یا grunt of any remoteable sort. So, like any other logical person, آپ assume he's not home, یا just doesn't care enough to answer.

A click echoes.

And, he stares at you. A speculative spark in his eyes.

"I didn't get married to Lucas...."

آپ let it slowly roll off the tip of your tongue.

His mouth opens slightly, yet no words even muttering out to the surface.

Your bottom lip instinctively pushes out, then draws back in, preparing for what to say.

"I'm in love with you."

He gives a small, joyful smile. A smile that could speak louder and mean مزید than any word آپ could ever hear.

"You don't deserve to wear white."

He picks, teasingly.

Slowly and easily, he pulls the سونا long handle all the way back, expanding the door, and opening آپ into his life.