It's horribly cliché, she thinks. Here she is, waiting outside for him in the pouring rain. It's one of those times, where the Sun's still out, and the rain just seems to be falling on her, like her world slowly flooding with tears. "He'll come. He always comes back."
This is how she tries to convince herself. Because she knows. She's always known.
He'll never love her.
/
He loves someone else.
/
And she'll attend the wedding next year, like a loyal friend, like a loyal cousin.
But when he'll look into her eyes, he will see her falling apart.