Lost First Love

My phone buzzed on the desk while I was zoning out in front of the computer screen. The design draft on the screen was half-finished, the cursor frozen in the corner like a sign lost in the dark. It was a notification from our high school group chat. A red "99+" kept flashing on the top right of the icon, stabbing my eyes, making them tense. I opened the long-dormant group chat, the red digital invite stabbing my eyes like a burning-hot needle, totally catching me off guard. Gilded letters flickered on a black background: Groom: Ryan Shaw. Bride: Libby Miller. It was sent by Ryan Shaw himself — his profile pic still that old high school basketball shot, red jersey and a dazzling grin. I stared at those two names for half a minute, fingers hovering over the screen, but I didn't type a single word. The chat stayed frozen at that graduation farewell dinner three years ago. Someone tagged Ryan Shaw, asking when we'd get married. He just sent a grinning emoji and said, "Soon." Three years after the breakup, this was the first time he popped back into my life—and like this. Out of nowhere, a new message popped up in the chat window—from Ryan Shaw's private account. His gray avatar suddenly lit up, like a spark flickering in the dark. "Are you free next Saturday?" My heart jolted, and my fingertips went icy cold. I stared at the text box, deleting and rewriting, then finally answered, "Maybe." "I'm getting married. I want you to be my bridesmaid." The phone nearly slipped from my hand. Sweat in my palm made the screen sticky; I gripped the burning-hot phone, fingertips blanching: "Ryan Shaw, are you out of your mind?" "Just think of it as... sending me off one last time." His message came so fast, like he was scared I'd say no. "We've been over for ages." I stared at the typing box, my nails digging into my palm, leaving crescent-shaped marks. "But you're still the one who knows me best." That sentence was like a rusty blade, slowly reopening an old wound. Blood beads seeped out, carrying the rusty tang from three years ago. I took a deep breath and hit send: "Not going." "You have to come." His message was firm, no room for argument: "I sent you the address." A location popped up in the chat—it was the city center's most famous wedding dress studio—"In the Flow of Time." I stared at those words and suddenly burst out laughing. Three years ago, he was just like this—always bossing my life around, like when he forced me to wear the sneakers he bought on a rainy day, saying, "This way you won't catch a cold."