The "e" is gone and everything changes. Not quite yet, that's hesitation, almost, the pause before surrender. Not quit yet though? That's rebellion with a limp. That's still standing even though standing hurts.
She tells herself it every morning, fingers on the bathroom sink, staring at a face that has forgotten how to feign. From within, the job is tearing her out.
The wedding more custom than home. She had dreamed, marked sometime, which is now gathering dust in the cellar of her ribs. Not finished quite. It's not she thought she could, so she did. It is darker than it. More transparent.