I was a bridesmaid last month. For someone I’ve known since we were small. Our mothers were friends. That’s how it works sometimes, isn't it? The generations connect. We played together as children. All the games, the made-up languages. We were inseparable, for a time. It's not a big deal but standing there, in that dress, I realised I hadn't had a proper conversation with her in maybe a decade. Not a real one. Just pleasantries. 'How are you?' 'Good, you?' That sort of thing. The kind you offer someone you barely know, not a person who saw you through primary school. It felt… hollow. She had enough bridesmaids to make the two sides even. That’s the truth of it. I was a number. Another body to balance the picture. I saw it then. Clear as day. I suppose it made sense. Everyone wants their wedding photos to look nice. Symmetry is important for that. My mother would have insisted on it. I smiled, of course. Congratulated her. Held her bouquet. Did all the things you’re meant to do. But inside, I felt this strange emptiness. Like I was a ghost at my own friend’s wedding. It’s a stupid thought, I know. But it’s what came. And I couldn’t shake it. The reception was loud. Music, dancing. People making speeches. All very joyous. I watched her, laughing, dancing with her new husband. She looked happy. And I was happy for her, truly. But it struck me that if I vanished, no one would notice. Not really. Not her. We hugged goodbye at the end. She said, "It was so good to have you here." And I knew what she meant. It was good to have me *there*. To complete the picture. To fill a space. I just said, "You too." And drove home.