I see the look in his eyes. You know, that gaze a guy gives a girl when he capital-L Loves her. As my best friend Ben stands up at the altar facing his bride, his black tux emphasizing the masculinity of his figure, I avert my eyes and swallow the lump forming in my throat. He loves her, I know that. I can hear it in the way his voice cracks, the way his hands shake as he desperately reaches for hers. I can see it in his toothy, genuine smile. Hell, I've heard him talk about her for years. He'd call me up at 2 a.m., describing her laugh, the way she looks in his clothes, the smallness of her hand in his. And I know he loves me too, I do. Just not in the way he loves her.
 When we were kids, I remember we used to climb up the flimsy, wooden rods of that old ladder to his treehouse. We'd hide out there for hours. I always liked those days. Two bottles of coca-cola, a game of monopoly, and an endless summer afternoon. It was no mystery I was a geek as a child. My look consisted of glasses that seemed to be inches thick, denim overalls filled with holes, and wild auburn curls that protruded from my head in a way that seemed inhumane to a ten year old. I was clumsy and awkward and had limbs comparable to overcooked spaghetti. I didn't have much, but I had Ben, my first friend, my only friend. He always saw the good in me when I couldn't. I eventually grew out of my awkwardness, but the two of us never grew away from each other. I love him.
 Now he stands across from a woman with straight black hair and an hourglass figure. Her name is Anna. You can tell just by looking at her that her bones were sculpted with elegance in mind. The bouquet, a cluster of red roses, hints of lust that is offset by the white satin of her dress. No wonder Ben loves her. Meanwhile I sit in a pew a few rows back from the marble altar. My navy blue dress is foreign against my skin. It feels tight, maybe like a straightjacket. For a second, I swear I can't breathe. The priests asks if anyone objects, but my voice disappeared a while ago. I look at Ben, who smiles nervously. Despite the tug I feel on my heartstrings, despite how blind I am without him, despite the memory of his childhood laughter, I sit still. I do not object. I do not object. I let the bride and groom go on believing that all the tears in the audience are out of happiness. The priest says more words I no longer hear. Ben and Anna kiss, a kiss that is filled with desire and the old-soul kind of love. My muscles somehow unfreezing, I find myself clapping with the crowd. For so long, I could never tell him I loved him. I've always mistaken my cowardice as self-sacrificial love. Now I have no choice. Ben catches my eye as he makes his way towards the back of the church, his smile radiating. The sun stretches through the stained glass windows and reflects on him. Chuckling, he shakes his head at me, and shrugs, as though to say "I don't know how I got so lucky." I try my best to smile back as he continues to walk away, hand-in-hand with his bride. Sacrificial love, I tell myself. For Ben's happiness.