It was sunset when I finally peeled myself off the couch to go outside and collect the mail. Light rain had been falling all day, and against the purple and orange sky, the raindrops looked like violet sparks.
As usual, I expected nothing more than bills addressed to my parents with an occasional ad for a lawn service or new credit card. In the nearly eighteen months since I’d graduated from college, I’d spent twelve of them living in my parents’ house, so I was used to never having anything in the mailbox for me.
But today was one of those rare instances where, while flipping through the handful of uniform envelopes stamped with different insurance logos, one vanilla white parcel slipped from my hands onto the table with my family’s last name written in neat cursive that I was unable to tell if it was handwritten or typed. I’d picked it up with no expectation—most likely another wedding invitation from someone I knew in high school but hadn’t spoken to since then. The lilac wax seal with the mark of a bouquet of hydrangeas confirmed my theory, however it was the name and photo on the invitation that made me stop in my tracks.
Daniel and Laura Hawthorne proudly announce the marriage of their daughter, Paris Renee Hawthorne to James Samuel Raymond.
Paris. My childhood best friend of nearly ten years. Getting married.
Paris and I had met just before starting first grade. Our school cubbies were next to each other and our classroom seating arrangements had us side by side. One day she had asked to borrow my pink crayon for an art project because it was her favorite color. When I had revealed that pink was my favorite color too, our bond was solidified instantly. From that day, we spent every weekend playing at each other’s houses, performing obnoxious karaoke, eating way too much frozen yogurt, and making plans about the role we would play in each other’s eventual weddings. She gave me the first and only ‘best friends’ necklace I’d ever own, and I gave her what would become her favorite CD—Prince’s Purple Rain. If I had a dime for every time we danced around her living room to that song, I’d have enough dimes to pay for her wedding.
Paris and I watched each other grow from children to teenagers until we were faced with the biggest trial that any pair of childhood best friends come to face: high school. No longer did we have classes or lunches together every day, and the chances to pass each other in the halls became more fleeting. I did theater after school, and she played soccer, and the fact that neither of us could ever be present to support the other didn’t help things. I made new friends, but little did I know how ruthless the other girls on the soccer team were to her.
My adolescence failed to teach me that I had to make time for those who were important to me. I learned that lesson years later, but not before Paris pulled me aside at lunch and ripped into my flailing efforts at being a good friend. I hadn’t wanted to believe her then, but now, it’s one of the most true things anyone’s ever said to me.
The conversation quickly escalated into a massive fight. Practically spitting verbal venom in each other’s faces, our friendship was over in one fell swoop. We had never fought until that day.
And yet now, I stood here with her wedding invitation in my hand, with everything about it seemingly copied and pasted from the Pinterest board we made as kids, save for one detail: me. But why? Why send this to me now?
Sure, I’d grown up and seen how ridiculous I had been for getting angry at something that was clearly my fault, and I’d thought about reaching out to her on social media many times to apologize. But what was the point of apologizing when someone had clearly moved on from their anger and settled in their indifference without your presence? Would she even care to hear me out?
Perhaps I could think about it. Perhaps I could crash the wedding with a flowery yet earnest request of forgiveness, paired with a very nice set of cutlery from her registry.
But just as I was about to put the invitation up on the fridge until I could make a decision, my younger brother Wyatt sauntered into the kitchen, and it dawned on me. He and Paris’s brother were good friends. Perhaps the invitation was truly meant for him.
“Here, Wy,” I passed him the invitation, “Evan’s sister is getting married, did he tell you that?”
In typical seventeen-year-old boy fashion, he shrugged and monotonously replied, “Whatever, it’s not like I’m not going. It’s a destination wedding in France.”
France. Paris. The city she was named for. Of course. We’d talked about that in depth when we were teenagers. The Pinterest board alone would send any wedding planner into cardiac arrest.
Before I could ask Wyatt to return the invitation to me, he crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash bin. “Oh, sorry. You didn’t want that, did you? I mean, doesn’t Paris still hate your guts?” He scratched the back of his head, clearly not caring to hear the answer.
I’d almost reached for the discarded invitation, a sharp, biting phrase being the first thing my mind jumped to say, then thought better. My outstretched fingers encased my palm in a fist. Deep down, a part of me agreed with Wyatt. The invitation was probably just a courtesy for her brother’s friend. Besides, I could barely afford to keep up with my student loans every month. How the hell was I supposed to afford a trip to Paris? And even if I did manage to scrape the money together, the last thing I wanted was to impose myself and cause her any pain or sorrow on a day that was supposed to be about her happiness. Regardless of if she did still hate me, I wasn’t about to steal her day from her.
So, I left the invitation in the trash can and did my best to forget I had ever seen it. Yet, for the next several days, I heard Prince’s Purple Rain everywhere I went: the grocery store, the gym, the nail salon. It seemed my guilt wasn’t through with me yet. So, I simply swallowed it until I found myself alone in my room to release it through tears.
Weeks later, I found myself once again glued to the couch, swiping my way through social media when Paris’s Instagram profile came up in my suggestions. For some reason, I clicked it and scrolled through the photos of her wedding. It looked beautiful—nearly identical to the Pinterest board—despite it nearly being rained out. The only difference was her maid of honor: some girl from high school who I only knew by name.
In one photograph, surrounded by Italian string lights amidst the indigo dusk of the Parisian sky, Paris and her new husband were dancing with their arms draped over each other. Wide smiles were shared between them as they seemed uninhibited by the downpour, and the rain against the lights and the night sky seemed to illuminate them in glowing lavender sparkles.
This time, instead of swallowing my grief, I let it swallow me. Maybe in another life, things were different. I let Prince’s lyrics drench me as I shut my phone off and stared up at the ceiling as though it was full of storm clouds.
Abbie Cochrane is a Utah-based actor of stage, screen, and voiceover known for her roles as Daria Bishop in “Dark Road Diaries,” Jez in “Witchpunk,” and Amelia in “Fox Teeth and Cosmic Blood.” She graduated from Southern Utah University in 2025 with a BFA in Musical Theater and a minor in Creative Writing. Her work can be found in publications such as the Kolob Canyon Review, Moss Puppy Magazine, and Yavanu Literary Journal. She has also assistant directed at the Tony Award-winning Utah Shakespeare Festival for their 2025 production of “Macbeth,” among other directorial escapades. When she’s not writing or performing stories, she’s experiencing them through playing DND, bringing characters to life through cosplay, or spoiling her sassy labradoodle named Lola. Follow along with her journey and side quests on Instagram @abbie__cadabi
Featured image by Oksana Berko on Unsplash.
