I knew the dress was trouble the minute it came out of the garment bag, a swathe of pale lilac taffeta... felt cheap, you know? Like the kind of thing you get at a discount store, but then they jack up the price 'cause it's for a *wedding*. The bride, my cousin, she picked it. Said it was "flattering" and "classic." Classic, yeah, like a straitjacket from the 1950s. I tried it on in her bougie spare room, the one with the throw pillows that cost more than my weekly groceries. It clung, like a wet sheet, to every curve, every dip. My shoulders, they just… didn’t fit. Broad, always been broad. From years of hauling boxes, stacking shelves, just… life. She looked at me, squinted, said, "Oh, it'll be fine, just needs a bit of tailoring." Like I had money for that. Like I had time. So I wore it. No tailoring, just... me, wrestling with the zipper in the morning, my breath held tight like I was underwater. The church was one of those old stone places, high ceilings, stained glass… made you feel tiny, even me. I’m not tiny. I’m taller than most women, and most men too, if I’m honest. Standing up there, at the altar, beside my cousin who looked like a porcelain doll in her meringue of a dress, I felt like a brick wall in a garden of delicate flowers. Every rustle of the taffeta, every sigh from the pews, it was like a spotlight on me. I could feel their eyes, like little pinpricks, tracing the lines of my back, my arms. Whispers... just a murmur, really, like bees in a hive. But I knew. I knew what they were saying. "She's so... *big*." "Doesn't she look a little... uncomfortable?" My jaw ached from smiling. Just a fixed grin, like a mannequin. The whole ceremony was a blur of Latin and organ music, and my own internal monologue screaming, *just get through it, just get through it*. I kept thinking about the bills waiting on the kitchen counter, the fridge that needed defrosting, the shift I had to pull tomorrow. Real things. Not this… performance. But there I was, caught in the current, trying to look graceful when all I wanted was to tear the cheap fabric off and breathe. My feet, in the ridiculous heels she’d insisted on, were already throbbing. Just another thing that didn’t quite fit, another thing making me feel like an alien on display. Later, at the reception, someone actually asked if I played rugby. Rugby! I just laughed, a little too loud, and said, "Nah, just built for hard work, I guess." My cousin, bless her heart, came over later, tipsy, and squeezed my arm. "Thanks for being my bridesmaid," she slurred, "you looked... so strong." Strong. Is that what it was? Or was it just… too much? I just wanted to go home, kick off the heels, peel off the dress, and put on my old sweats. The ones with the paint stains. The ones that actually fit. The ones that don’t scream “look at me.” I’m still wearing the dress now, on the bus ride home, crumpled in the seat. The fabric feels like sandpaper against my skin. There’s a tiny tear near the hem. I don’t even care.