Emma Swan twisted the two rings around her finger, counting every lap the diamond and wedding band rotated around it, a habit she'd picked up two and a half years ago when she had first gotten engaged.

A telltale sign that she was anxious.

She continued to drink her glass of chardonnay, trying to compose herself but to no avail. She tried not to look at her phone, knowing full well that Walsh hadn't and wasn't about to answer her text message that she sent him an hour ago any time soon. You'd think my own husband would get back to me, she thought bitterly, but God knows he's more committed to his job than his own wife. Giving up, she makes sure that her phone's ringer is loud and running, and takes her glass of chardonnay with her to the living room, leaving her phone on the kitchen counter.

Still twisting her rings, she stares at the package that she received in the mail today. Her college roommate, Mary Margaret, was finally tying the knot with her long time boyfriend, David.

It's about time, really. She thinks as she opens the rustic wooden box, tied together with a rose blush ribbon. In it there's a monogrammed necklace, a flask, a packet of Jordan almonds, countless other knick-knacks, and a heart-warming letter with hand-lettered cursive typeface bearing the words, "Will you be my bridesmaid?"

Emma doesn't really know what's stopping her from calling Mary Margaret up and accepting her offer. She's ecstatic for her and for David. She's known both of them since freshman seminar and couldn't think of a more perfect couple to decide to spend their lives together. She wants to do it, and she will. But right now, looking around her dark and empty Upper West Side apartment, she can't bear to think about how there could be people who aren't as miserable as she currently is. Bitterly, she reprimands herself about being so angry. For a woman who spent so much time during her childhood jumping from foster home to foster home, she had certainly ended up in a much better place than anyone else she has met. Her apartment is lavish, she's a top New York marketing executive, she's married to an attractive, successful, if albeit neglectful husband, and the Harry Winston rock on her finger is worth the down payment on a car. There is no reason for her to be unhappy, except that none of the things she's listed off makes her feel particularly fulfilled. Her job is the only thing that gives her some sort of vocational fulfillment, given that it's the only thing that wasn't handed to her on a silver platter by getting involved with Walsh. No, she got that corner office by her own very hard work.

She downs the last of her glass, relishing in the fuzzy, warm feeling in the pit of her stomach as the effects of the wine reach almost every end of her body. Standing up, she heads back to the kitchen and forgoes pouring herself another glass and just takes the entire bottle back into the room. Checking her phone, she isn't surprised to see no message waiting for her, and continues to her room.

Two hours later the alcohol in her system is putting her in a worse mood than she was previously. Chardonnay bottle forgotten on the floor of the bathroom she's been in the tub for God knows how long. The water, once frothy and warm has turned cold and milky with soap. Her fingers and toes are pruned from so much exposure to water. Emma can't see straight, alcohol blurring her vision and her surroundings. She can't help but ask herself where did it all go wrong? Walsh and her were an incredible couple. She remembers the times in the beginning, how incredibly happy they were. How she felt how he couldn't get enough of her, coming home early, convincing her to take off from work to stay in the sheets all day, talking and laughing, making love so frequently. But why is it that now they're a hollow shell of the couple they used to be? Where was the passion, the company, the love they promised each other until death do they part? She's rabid with anger, hot tears prickling the back of her eyes, her nose scrunching up trying to stop them from falling down. When she finally exits the tub and heads to her room she has half a mind to chuck her rings at all the smiling pictures of her and Walsh.

This isn't living. This isn't what I signed up for.

It's almost one o'clock in the morning when, after crying for a fair amount of time, she finally falls asleep.

Emma almost doesn't wake up at her usual time, a quarter to seven. She barely heard her alarm clock going off. The morning greets her with an incredibly horrible headache.

"Too much wine." She mutters to herself, barely being able to swing her legs over to get out of bed. When she stands the room around her sways a bit and an awful sensation swells in the pit of her stomach. She's very aware just of how drunk she still is. Walsh is nowhere to be found, but he messaged her when she was too drunk to notice it last night, that he was staying over in the office that night because of the mountain of work he and his team still needed to finish.

"I wonder what the press would think if they knew New York State senator Walsh Hamilton's wife was going to work still drunk?" she mused, trying to make herself look presentable and less like the shit show she looks like now. Finally finished, she heads for work.

Her phone vibrates as she and a dozen other people, each in their own world, cross Madison and 7th.

"I was just about to call you!" she says trying to rid herself of Mary's scolding.

"Yeah, I was wondering if you had died or something last night! Did you get my package, cause I figured you'd be the first to call but you didn't." she sounds slightly annoyed, her usual motherly tone nowhere part of this conversation, Emma doesn't know if she's teasing or not.

"I meant to call, I just had a terrible night last night." she replies.

"Walsh?" Mary offers knowingly.

"Yep."

"Em, you've got to talk to him. It's not doing your relationship any good for you to hold resentment towards him."

"I know, I know. I just wish he was actually there so I could talk to him. But he doesn't care. I swear he only thinks of himself." Emma replies exasperatedly.

"I'm sure that's not it. He loves you, it's true love remember?" her hopeful tone is cute, but not cute enough to convince Emma.

"Yeah, okay. Let's change the topic, can we? So, you're finally getting things together for the wedding."

"Yes! By the way, what's your answer? I can't not have you as my maid of honor! You need to guide me through this and be my savior!" she pleads.

"Alright, I'll do it! I'll do it! But promise me you won't get crazy." Emma warns sternly but smiles despite herself.

"I promise! I promise I'll be good!' she squeals something about being so excited and that she has to go and tell David before hanging up. Emma feels a little better that morning. She feels like someone needs her, and that's something she hasn't felt in a while.