A month before my wedding, my fiancé started pulling away in ways I couldn’t quite explain. Then he stopped answering me, and his mother gave me an explanation that felt wrong the second I heard it.

Twilight had poured itself across my apartment in bruised shades of violet and blue, turning the half-packed wedding favors on my table into little paper ghosts. The roses from our tasting meeting were already browning at the edges.

The room smelled sweet and tired. Everything around me looked like a life on the verge of happening. And then Nate vanished.

For three years, I thought he was the safest choice I had ever made.

When he proposed, I said yes before he finished the question.

Then, about a month before the wedding, Nate started slipping away in small pieces.

He drifted in conversations.

Took calls in the other room. Once, I walked in and found him staring at his phone like it had delivered a death sentence.

I asked, “What’s going on?”

He gave me a tired smile. “Just family stuff.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

That answer bothered me more than if he had snapped.

A few nights later, I asked again.

We were in bed, lights off, my head on his chest.

“Nate.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re freaking out about the wedding, say it now.”

He turned toward me right away. “I’m not freaking out about marrying you.”

“Then what are you freaking out about?”

He took too long to answer.

Finally he said, “Something came up. I don’t fully understand it yet.”

“No.”

“Should it?”

He let out a breath.

“I don’t know.”

That was the worst answer he could have given.

One week before the wedding, he stopped answering me.

No texts. No calls. Straight to voicemail.