I Deleted Our Wedding Playlist

With only seven days left until the wedding, the coordinator asked Larry and me to finalize our procession playlist.

I had chosen the indie track that played during the credits of the very first movie we ever watched together.

Larry looked at the screen, frowned, and deleted it. "It’s too obscure, Carol.

No one is going to get it." A second later, he dragged and dropped Sasha's favorite song into the slot for our main theme.

As I froze, Sasha offered a soft, apologetic smile. "Oh, Carol, please don't be mad. I only mentioned that song once in passing.

I had no idea he'd actually remember." Larry took the iPad from my hands, his tone dismissive yet gentle. "You've never cared about these little details anyway, right?" But I did care.

I cared deeply. To find that specific track, I had dug through an old memory box to find our ticket stub from seven years ago, spending hours hunting down the original vinyl rip.

Later, when I went to the study to retrieve the ring box, I overheard Larry on the phone. "It's just a wedding," he was saying, his voice low. "She isn't going to make a fuss over a song.

But if you're unhappy that day... that’s what I’m worried about." Standing outside the halfopen door, I suddenly felt the song lose all its meaning.

I realized that when a relationship finally falls apart, the first thing to go quiet isn't the music.

It's the silent accumulation of your own unspoken hurts. … I put the ring box back into the drawer just as Larry pushed the door open.

He was holding the printed music cue sheet—the one with my song crossed out. "Why are you still up?

You have your makeup trial tomorrow." My eyes drifted to the black ink slashing through my choice. Larry followed my gaze and sighed softly. "It's just a song, Carol.

Don't overthink it." "Do you even remember it?" I asked. He paused, searching his memory. "Sure I do. That rainy afternoon at the indie theater.

You cried so hard during the credits." "You told me that day," I murmured, "that we'd play it at our wedding." Larry's phone buzzed. A voice note from Sasha.

Before tapping play, he shot me a warning look—a silent plea not to make a scene. Sasha’s bright, airy voice filled the quiet study: "Larry, I listened to the theme again.

It really is perfect for you guys! Tell me if I’m being a total busybody, okay?" He typed back immediately: "Not at all.

You've always had the best taste." Watching him, my mind drifted back seven years to that tiny, rundown theater.

When the credits rolled, he had pushed his halfeaten popcorn into my lap, teasing me for crying like my dog had died.

He had laughed, wrapping an arm around me. "We’re playing this at our wedding.

That way, everyone will know how easy you are to make happy." Now, he didn't remember the song's name, let alone his promise.

He only remembered that Sasha had good taste. "Carol, you know Sasha's health has been delicate since we were kids. She's sensitive.

Don't take things so personally." I stared at him. "Is she really just your sister, Larry?" His brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "In every way that matters, yes.

My parents took her in when she was ten. You know this." Of course I knew. Sasha was the daughter of his father's late business partner.

She moved into the Fletcher estate at ten, followed Larry to college in Boston at eighteen, and returned home at twentythree to become the fragile girl who constantly needed his protection.

In our seven years together, the phrases I heard most were "Sasha has had it hard", "Sasha will be upset", or "Sasha didn't mean anything by it". His phone lit up again.

Sasha had sent a photo.

In it, she was wearing a pair of vintage pearl earrings—the exact ones I had admired but ultimately decided not to buy when I picked out my wedding dress. "Larry, do you think these are too much for a bridesmaid?

I don't want to upstage the bride!" He gave a soft chuckle. "She's just playing around.

Don't take it to heart." I stared at the pearls. "Did you buy those for her?" Larry’s patience finally snapped. "She’s spending her whole day helping you with your fitting tomorrow.

I picked them up as a small thankyou. Carol, stop overcomplicating everything." I nodded slowly, sealing my lips.

Satisfied with my silence, he reached out and gently stroked my hair. "That's my girl. We only have seven days left.

Let's not make this harder on everyone than it needs to be." I looked up into his eyes. "What if I told you I still want our song?" His hand froze. "The playlist has already been sent to the DJ, Carol.

It looks unprofessional to keep changing things last minute." A soft knock sounded at the door.

Sasha peeked through the gap, her face bright with a helpful smile. "Am I interrupting? Larry, your parents said there's a slight issue with the rehearsal seating chart.

They wanted me to doublecheck with Carol." She walked in carrying a printed seating layout. One glance at the head table made my chest tighten.

Under "Mother of the Bride", my late mother's name had been neatly crossed out.

Sasha placed the paper on the desk, her smile fading into a look of delicate concern. "Carol, please don't take this the wrong way.

I just thought... since your mom passed, leaving an empty seat at the front might feel a bit somber for the guests.

People might whisper." Standing behind her, Larry murmured his agreement. "Sasha makes a fair point. There will be a lot of people there.

We don't need guests whispering about an empty chair during the ceremony." My throat burned.

Before my mother passed away, her deepest regret was knowing she wouldn't see me walk down the aisle.

I had designed a quiet tribute: a reserved seat at the front, draped with a simple white ribbon, holding a single bouquet of her favorite yellow tulips.

It was the only detail in this overcommercialized, heavilyaltered wedding that still belonged entirely to me.

I looked up at Larry. "You want to delete this, too?" He sighed, adjusting his cufflinks. "It's not deleting, Carol. It's about keeping things elegant.

We have to design this for the living, too." Sasha’s eyes instantly welled with tears. "Larry, please don't argue with Carol because of me. I can sit at the back. It's fine.

I know I don't really matter in this." Larry turned to her, his voice softening. "Don't say that." A dry laugh escaped my throat.

Larry shot me a warning look. "What's funny?" I pushed the seating chart back toward them. "Nothing.

Just realizing that I'm the one who doesn't matter here." The study fell dead silent.

Larry picked up a pen and drew a circle next to my mother's designated seat. "Let's leave it like this for tonight.

I'll have the wedding planner adjust it before the rehearsal tomorrow." I stared at the black ink. "Did you even think to ask me?" Larry paused, looking up. "Carol, you never used to be like this." I wanted to ask him what "like this" meant.

Did he mean the version of me who silently agreed when he changed the florist? The one who nodded when he swapped out the color scheme?

The one who kept quiet as Sasha's name crept into every single aspect of our wedding planning? Sasha gently tugged at Larry's sleeve. "Larry, forget it.

Carol is probably just feeling prewedding anxiety.

I'm sure she isn't targeting me on purpose." She played the peacemaker beautifully, taking a step back with every word—while standing firmly on my ground.

The next afternoon at the makeup trial, the stylist praised how a clean, low bun suited my features.

Sasha sat nearby, resting her chin in her hands. "Don't you think that’s a little too plain, Carol? Wedding cameras wash you out.

Something bolder and brighter would look much better." Larry didn't even look up from his tablet. "Listen to Sasha.

She's helped coordinate charity galas before." The stylist looked between us, clearing her throat. "Carol, what do you think?" I stared at my reflection, looking at the pale, heavily powdered face in the mirror. "I want to go with my original plan," I said quietly.

Sasha’s polite smile faltered. Larry finally put down his tablet and walked over, placing his hands on the back of my chair. "Let's not make things difficult, Carol.

There's a whole crew waiting on the schedule today.

If you change one detail, it affects the entire timeline." Near the door, a few assistants paused their whispering and looked our way.

Sasha stepped in with her usual gentle tone. "Larry, let's just do what Carol wants.

Even if it doesn't photograph as well, her happiness is what matters." In the mirror, I watched Larry's expression turn icecold.

He leaned down, whispering in my ear. "Do you really have to embarrass me in front of the staff?" My hands clenched into fists on my lap.

The words were quiet, but they stung worse than the pen scratching out my mother's seat.

When the trial wrapped up, the stylist handed me a small, faded slip of paper. "Carol, this fell out of your folder when we were reviewing the playlist." It was the movie ticket stub from seven years ago.

The edges were yellowed, and on the back, in Larry's messy, youthful handwriting, were the words: "We play this at our wedding.

No excuses." Sasha leaned over to read it, letting out a soft laugh. "Oh, that’s cute.

Larry, your handwriting was so childish back then." Larry stared at the ink, his face freezing for a fraction of a second.

But just as quickly, he snatched the stub from my fingers and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. "That was a lifetime ago.

Keeping things like this is pointless." I reached for the bin, but an assistant had already picked it up, tossing it into a large heavyduty bag filled with discarded mockups and trash.

By the time I caught up with them at the end of the hallway, the bag was being handed over to the venue coordinator. The coordinator looked at me apologetically. "I’m sorry, Carol.

That load is going straight to the incinerator. Mr. Fletcher told us earlier to clear out all the old, unnecessary clutter before tomorrow's setup." I turned to look at Larry.

He was standing a few feet away, his tone exasperated. "It's just a scrap of paper, Carol.

Don't make the entire staff stop their work to search for trash." Sasha draped her bridesmaid shawl over her shoulders and stepped beside him. "Carol, I get that you're sentimental, but a wedding is a public celebration.

Things that are too private just don't translate well to a crowd." I felt a sudden, chilling admiration for her. She never had to grab anything with her own hands.

She only had to whisper that something was "unsuitable," and Larry would gladly tear it away from me for her. That evening, both of our families gathered for dinner.

A long table was filled with Larry's extended family. His mother, reviewing the itinerary, smiled warmly at Sasha. "Sasha, you've put so much effort into this.

You've handled the music, the seating... honestly, anyone walking in would think you were the one getting married." Laughter rippled across the table.

Sasha lowered her head, blushing perfectly on cue. "Please don't tease me, Mrs. Fletcher.

I was just worried Larry would be overwhelmed with all the planning." Larry placed a piece of roasted duck onto her plate. "You've been a lifesaver." I sat next to him, watching the water in my glass go from warm to room temperature.

His mother turned her gaze to me, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet reprimand. "Carol, dear, don't stress yourself out too much.

When it comes to weddings, it's best to let the groom handle the heavy lifting.

A woman who overthinks every detail only ends up exhausted." "I only wanted to keep the seat for my mother," I said softly. A sudden silence fell over the table. The smile on Mrs.

Fletcher’s face withered. "Well, dear, she’s gone. It's the thought that counts. A wedding is supposed to be a joyous occasion.

Let's not bring a somber note that makes the older relatives uncomfortable." Larry gripped his water glass, his voice warning. "Carol." Those two syllables weren't comfort.

They were a command to shut down. Sasha immediately stood up, holding her glass as she walked over to my side. "Carol, I’m so sorry. This is entirely my fault.

If it makes you uncomfortable, I don't have to sit at the head table.

I can sit anywhere, really." Her voice trembled with fragile grace, making it look as though I were publicly bullying her. Larry’s aunt frowned. "Sasha is such a sweet girl.

Carol, you shouldn't make a mountain out of a molehill.

If you're going to be this difficult before the wedding, how are you two going to survive a marriage?" I looked at Larry, waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Just a simple acknowledgement that this was a tribute we had agreed on months ago. But he merely slid my water glass closer to me. "Take a sip of water.

Let's not make a scene." At that moment, I realized I was done waiting. After dinner, I went to the restroom to touch up my lipstick.

From inside the stall, I heard the door open, followed by Sasha's voice and one of her friends. "Aren't you worried Carol is going to snap?" the friend asked with a giggle.

The sound of running water started. "Let her," Sasha replied, her voice light and careless. "What's she going to do? Larry can't stand seeing me upset.

Besides, she’s been putting up with it for seven years.

She isn't going to start fighting now." The friend lowered her voice. "But he is actually marrying her." There was a brief pause, then a soft chuckle from Sasha. "A wedding is just a show.

People are what matter. The playlist is mine, the head table is mine.

All she's getting is a piece of paper." The faucet clicked shut. "By the way, did you manage to grab that old ticket stub for me?" Sasha asked. "Yeah, it’s in your bag," her friend replied, sounding curious. "Why do you even want it?" Sasha murmured, "Larry wrote something on the back years ago.

I just wanted to see exactly how pathetic and childish he used to be for her." Standing in the stall, my fingers trembled, the cap of my lipstick scraping against the red balm, smearing it across my palm.

After their footsteps faded, I stepped out. There, sitting on the marble vanity, was Sasha’s designer clutch.

The zipper was halfopen, and the unmistakable yellowed corner of my ticket stub was peeking out. I pulled it out and slipped it behind my phone case.

When I returned to the private dining room, Larry was finalizing the cue sheets with the coordinator. "Mr.

Fletcher, we’ve updated the procession track to the version Sasha provided," the coordinator said with a polite nod. "We’ll run the new track at tomorrow's rehearsal." I pulled out my chair and sat down. "What new version?" Larry glanced at me, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes at my interruption, though his voice remained measured. "Sasha found a modern arrangement that works better with the sound system.

Your version is too old, and the audio quality isn't great." My fingers brushed the edge of my phone case. "Did you even listen to the original track I found?" The hand flipping through his itinerary paused. "It doesn't matter, Carol.

The guests want an atmosphere, not a soundtrack to your private memories." Sasha slid a glass of warm water toward me. "Carol, please don't be upset.

I was just trying to polish things up.

I’m not trying to take anything from you." I looked directly into her eyes. "Was stealing my ticket stub part of your polishing process?" Sasha’s face drained of color.

Larry frowned. "What ticket stub?" I placed my phone face down on the table. "The one from seven years ago.

The one she had her friend salvage from the trash." Sasha’s eyes filled with tears instantly. "Larry, I didn't!

I just knew how much it meant to Carol, so I wanted to find it for her." She fumbled with her bag, pulling out a creased ticket slip. But it wasn't mine.

The seat numbers were wrong, and the handwriting on the back wasn't Larry's. Larry barely glanced at it before sliding it over to me. "See? She found it.

Are you satisfied now?" I stared at the fake ticket stub. The energy to argue drained out of me completely.

It didn't matter what the truth was; the moment Sasha shed a tear, reality rearranged itself to protect her.

During the rehearsal that night, the house lights dimmed, and the music swelled through the venue's speakers. Within the first second of the intro, my chest tightened.

The track used the sample from my original version, but they had edited out the quiet monologue at the end, weaving in the synth melodies Sasha preferred.

It felt like someone had dismantled a sacred memory I’d kept safe for seven years, reconstructing it to spell out her name. "Bride, you may begin your procession!" the coordinator called out over the microphone.

I held the mock bouquet and started walking down the aisle. The giant projector screens on either side of the altar were supposed to play a slideshow of Larry and me over the years.

Instead, a video package Sasha had "curated" began to play.

There she was with Larry on his college campus in Boston, standing together in the gardens of the Fletcher estate—reclaiming years I had never been a part of.

A few wedding assistants whispered near the back. "Is this a tribute to the bridesmaid?" Sasha sprang up from her seat, looking horrified. "Oh my god, did they play the wrong file?

Larry, I told them to delete that folder!" Larry strode quickly to the AV booth, his voice sharp and low. "Cut it.

Now." The screen froze on a single image: Larry’s twentieth birthday. Sasha was wearing a paper crown, leaning her head against his shoulder.

In the corner of the wooden table in the background lay a movie ticket stub. The exact duplicate of the one behind my phone case. Finally, the pieces clicked together.

Seven years ago, we hadn't been alone in that theater. Sasha had been there, too. She hadn't stumbled onto our song years later. She had known about it from the very beginning.

The coordinator held the mic awkwardly. "Mr.

Fletcher, which media package are we running for tomorrow?" Larry turned to look at me, his jaw tight. "Carol, let's just get through the rehearsal first.

Don't stand there." Sasha suddenly pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing turning shallow. "Larry... my chest feels tight.

Did I ruin everything again?" Larry rushed to her side, catching her before she could stumble.

He didn't even look back at me as he instructed the coordinator, "Run Sasha's cut tomorrow. I'll handle Carol." I looked down at my phone.

The chat with the wedding planner was still open.

Her last message read: "Carol, if you want to officially cancel the venue and vendors, I need your final confirmation." Larry guided Sasha past me toward the exit, his voice low with exhaustion. "It's just a rehearsal, Carol.

Don't start a fight now." I tapped and held the microphone icon. "I confirm..."