Even with white frosting smeared on her nose, her smile is brighter than the sky, which is a blinding pale gray.

It doesn't even feel as if I've just done one of the biggest things in my life.

It just feels like the vows we stated in front of a misty-eyed audience were a more formal version of what we murmur into each others' hair in the early morning; the dance we shared was a dressed-up replica of two nights ago in our kitchen when we danced to You Are In Love and Golden Days.

They say everything changes with marriage, but I don't think anything's different.

Annabelle holds her Polaroid out to Jacob, and he motions for us to stand together. We oblige, her arm winding around the waist of my own dress (which is floaty and light and spins when I twirl). I can't help how blindingly bright the beam I offer to the camera is, because I've always thought about how it'd be if I ever got married. There are fairy lights strung around and there are orchids and sunflowers and daisies and Annabelle, and there's music playing and Annabelle, just everything is exactly how we imagined it.