Life isn't a straight line.

People like to pretend it is—birth, school, work, love, death—but that's not how memory works. You don't remember every morning you woke up or every meal you ate or every ordinary Tuesday that blurred into the next. What you remember are the moments. Specific ones. Sharp ones. The kind that stay.

Your life, when you really think about it, is made of bullet points.

A birthday.
A fight that changed everything.
A dinner where everyone laughed a little too loud.
A trip you still think about years later.
A joke that wasn't even that funny but somehow never left you.
A goodbye.
A wedding.

Those are the things that stick. Those are the things you measure your life by.

And maybe that's why I do what I do.

I create moments.

Not the quiet ones that sneak up on you, but the big ones—the ones people plan their lives around. The ones they photograph, frame, replay. I build memories before they exist. I connect people, places, logistics, light, music, timing. I organize chaos into something beautiful and intentional. Something unforgettable.

I make sure that years from now, someone will say, Remember when we did that? Remember how perfect it was?

That's my job.

I know how to make things look flawless. I know how to choreograph emotion. I know how to turn a future day into a memory worth keeping.

For everyone else.

The irony isn't lost on me.

Because I'm very good at building moments—and very bad at living inside them.

The wedding invitation rests on my lap, thick paper, soft edges, elegant lettering. I've already memorized every detail of it. I helped choose half of them. The font. The timing. The place.

A private villa in Tuscany.
Three days.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

Sophia could have gotten married anywhere. She and Henry have the kind of money that turns anywhere into an option. But they wanted romance. Elegance. Something timeless. Something that felt like it existed outside of normal life.

So I said, Italy.

More specifically, Tuscany.

Rolling hills. Warm stone. Sunsets that look unreal even in photos. A place where everything feels intentional, like it was designed to be remembered.

They loved the idea.

I was proud of it. Still am.

The plane hums beneath me, steady and constant, the sound of movement without effort. Miles and miles away from home, heading toward a moment I helped build. A moment that will define someone else's life.

I look down at the invitation again, thumb brushing the edge, and I try not to think about the fact that I've crossed oceans for other people's beginnings while quietly avoiding my own.

I try not to think about how strange it is to create permanence for others when I've spent years convincing myself that everything is temporary.

Outside the window, the sky is endless.

And somewhere ahead of me—past the clouds, past the carefully planned schedules and curated beauty—is a weekend that I sincerely would rather skip.

Sophia and Henry are old friends, highschool old friends, that mean this wedding will not only be a wedding but a highschool reunion and I don't feel ready for that.

The amount of questions and looks from people that were in special moments in your life either good or bad.

I have the life I always wanted, don't get me wrong but having to explain all that I do and put on smiles for reformed bullies is not really on my to do list.

The thought settles in my chest with a surprising sense of calm. I travel. I build things people remember. I make a living out of beauty and intention and celebration. I can cross oceans because it's part of my job, because someone trusted me with one of the most important days of their life.

I wanted this. I worked for this.

At twenty-six, I finally feel... assembled. Like all the loose pieces have been placed where they're supposed to be. It only took me twenty-six years to figure it out, but I did. I'm independent. Stable. Successful. I'm exactly where I should be.

I smile to myself, small and satisfied, and lean my head back against the seat.

"Excuse me."

I blink.

"I'm sorry," the woman next to me says, already not sounding sorry at all. She's maybe in her late fifties, perfectly styled, wearing oversized sunglasses indoors like the plane is a red carpet. "Could you not lean so much to the left? You're kind of... invading my space."

I straighten immediately. "Oh—yeah. Sorry."

She hums, unimpressed, then glances at the invitation still open on my lap. Her lips purse.

"Wedding?" she asks.

"Yes," I say, automatically. "Destination wedding."

She snorts. Actually snorts.

"Must be nice," she says. "Flying across the world for someone else's marriage."

I laugh politely, because that's what you do. "It's for work, too. I helped plan it."

"Of course you did," she replies, then looks me up and down like she's assessing a résumé she doesn't like. "You don't look married."

I choke a little. "I'm... not."

"Mm," she says, nodding like that confirms something important. "Career girl."

I feel my smile stiffen. "I wouldn't put it like that."

"Well," she continues, undeterred, "just don't wait too long. These things"—she gestures vaguely at the invitation, at Italy, at love itself—"have a way of passing you by when you're busy organizing everyone else's happiness."

And just like that, she turns toward the window, conversation over, judgment delivered.

I stare at the back of her sunglasses, my earlier sense of completeness wobbling slightly, like a Jenga tower someone just tapped for fun.

I have the life I always wanted, I repeat to myself.

I do.

The invitation suddenly feels heavier in my hands.

Maybe I am put together. Maybe I am successful. Maybe I am exactly where I planned to be.

I shake the thought off almost immediately.

People always have something to say. Especially people who confuse permanence with happiness. I don't need a stranger on a plane telling me what my life should look like. I know what I'm doing. I've chosen this path carefully. Intentionally.

Moments define us. Not expectations. Not timelines. Moments.

And I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Even if that's in the nowhere of a blue sky.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

By the time the plane lands, that certainty has settled back into place, solid and familiar. I gather my things calmly, efficiently. Phone, passport, invitation back into my bag like it belongs there.

At baggage claim, I stand with the quiet confidence of someone who knows how this part goes. My mind hums lightly, a melody looping in my head —

"

I spot my suitcase almost immediately.

Bright tag. Second rotation.

I light up.

It's ridiculous how pleased I feel. I almost laugh, catching myself mid-step as I reach for it. I rein it in quickly, straightening my shoulders, schooling my expression back into composure. No need to look like a child who just won a prize. Still, I can't help the small victory.

Ten minutes. Fifteen at most.

A personal record.

I pull the handle up, solid click, and the melody in my head swells just a little. Tuscany. Three days. A perfect plan unfolding exactly as expected.

Outside, the air feels different—warmer, softer. The kind of warmth that sinks into your skin instead of sitting on it. I check my phone, already thinking ahead. Car service, taxi, maybe an Uber if that's easier here. I can figure it out.

I always do.

"Okay," I murmur to myself, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "Let's go."

And then—

"Oh my God. Oh my God."

I freeze.

I know that voice.

I know it in the way you know a song you haven't heard in years but could still sing the chorus of if you had to.

I don't turn around.

I consider—briefly—pretending I didn't hear it. I could disappear into the crowd, slip past the automatic doors, be gone before—

"Maddie? Maddison Miller?"

Too late.

Arms wrap around me before I can react, warm and sudden and entirely too familiar.

"I knew it was you," she says, already laughing, already emotional. "I can't believe it. It's been—what—eight years? Ten?"

I laugh automatically, because that's what you do when the past crashes into you without warning. "Hi," I manage. "Wow. Hi."

She pulls back just enough to look at me properly, eyes bright, scanning my face like she's looking for proof that I'm real.

And that's when I see him.

Standing right behind her. Still. Hands shoved into his pockets. Same posture. Same expression he always had right after an argument he pretended not to care about.

He gives me a small nod. "Hey, Maddie."

It's polite. Muted. Almost tired.

I glance between them—her buzzing with energy, him quiet and withdrawn—and something clicks into place with surprising ease.

Some things really don't change.

Ten years, and they're still together. Still orbiting each other in that chaotic, combustible way that everyone swore would never last. The couple no one bet on. The couple who argued loudly, made up messily, broke up dramatically, and somehow... stayed.

I remember lockers. Cafeterias. Eye rolls. Whispers.
There's no way they make it past graduation.

And yet—here they are. Tuscany. Together.

She's still talking, filling the space between breaths, while he watches her with an expression that suggests they probably fought on the plane. Or the taxi. Or five minutes ago.

I smile, warm and practiced, the way you do when the present brushes up against the past without permission.

Funny how quickly eight years can collapse into a single moment.

And how easily I slip back into it.

"—I mean, I swear, if he had just listened to me the first time, we wouldn't have missed the exit, but no, apparently I'm too dramatic—"

"I didn't say that," he mutters.

She ignores him completely.

"This is Tessa, by the way," she says, still half-latched onto my arm like we're best friends who speak daily. "In case you forgot me. Which would honestly be rude, but I'd forgive you because it's been forever."

I laugh. "Hi, Tessa."

"And this is Ben," she adds, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder.

Ben lifts a hand in a small, resigned wave. "Hey."

Same Ben. Same energy. Like he's been emotionally buffering for a decade.

"So," Tessa continues, eyes lighting up dangerously, "are you headed to the villa too?"

"Yes," I say quickly. Too quickly. "But I'm good. I actually just called an Uber."

I didn't.

"Oh no," she says, horrified. "You can't Uber here. That's a nightmare."

"I already did," I lie smoothly. "It's fine."

Ben glances at the curb. Then at my phone. Then back at me.

Tessa, however, is already pointing. "Oh my God. Look. There she is."

I follow her gaze.

A Fiat 500—white, electric, aggressively adorable—sits parked at the curb like it's posing for a commercial. It's tiny. Laughably tiny. The kind of car that looks like it belongs to a cartoon couple who argue passionately and somehow survive it.

I feel something traitorous soften in my chest.

"I love that car," I say before I can stop myself.

"I knew you would," Tessa beams. "We rented it. Isn't she perfect?"

She absolutely is.

She is also physically incapable of fitting three adults and approximately twelve suitcases.

"It's incredible," I say carefully. "But I already ordered the Uber."

"You can cancel it."

"I don't think you can cancel Ubers in Italy," I say, with confidence that surprises even me.

Ben blinks. "I'm pretty sure you—"

"It's very complicated," I add. "European rules."

Tessa narrows her eyes at me. "How much was it?"

"It's fine," I insist. "I'll just meet you there."

"No," she says firmly. "Absolutely not. You're not riding alone when we have a car."

She turns to Ben. "Grab her bag."

Before I can protest, Ben is already lifting my suitcase like this has happened to him before. Like this is his role in life now.

"Tessa," I say, half-laughing, "I really don't think this is going to—"

"It'll fit," she says confidently, opening the trunk. Or what pretends to be a trunk.

It does not fit.

She stares at it. Then at the bags. Then back at me.

"...We can stack."

They stack.

It's a miracle. Or a crime.

Ben closes the trunk with a careful push, like he's sealing evidence.

I look at the car. Then at them. Then at the car again.

I exhale. "Well," I say, deadpan, "this feels like a choice I'll talk about in therapy."

Tessa laughs like it's the best thing she's heard all day. "See? Still funny. Still you."

I smile despite myself.

"Okay," I say, surrendering. "It seems I have no choice. Thank you for the ride."

"Of course," she says, already climbing into the passenger seat. "It's fate."

Ben opens the back door for me, expression apologetic but kind. "Sorry in advance."

I shrug, sliding in carefully, knees practically touching my chest. "I organize chaos for a living. I'll survive."

The door shuts. The car hums to life.

And as we pull away from the airport—packed too tightly, arguing already beginning again—I settle back, amused, grounded, and entirely convinced of one thing:

My life is still exactly on track.

Even if it comes in very small cars.