Prepping for My Friend's Big Day — But Only for the 'Bigger' Bridesmaids

When Trina is asked to be a bridesmaid, she expects nostalgia... not a glossy box of shame disguised as support. As the big day draws near, quiet cruelty and curated perfection collide. This is a story about friendship, control, and the quiet revolution of choosing yourself... no matter who's watching.

When the box arrived, I thought it was a candle. And maybe a bottle of champagne. Or a pair of earrings. Or face masks.

Melissa always had a thing for presentation. So, of course, the box came with a luxury soy wax stamp and embossed cards in rose gold script. It was just like her to send something extra with a bridal party invitation.

But what I pulled from the tissue paper wasn't fragrance or warmth. It was nothing but pressure and insecurity, wrapped with a tidy bow.

Inside the parcel was a folder labeled Wedding Prep Kit! decorated in bubble letters and gold heart stickers. Neatly clipped to the cover was a typed diet plan. I'm talking about strict calorie limits, forbidden foods printed in bold red, and "safe" recipes arranged by week.

Everything was color-coded and cheerful, as if the font choice would make it less invasive. And to make it worse, there was a bottle of "Organic Metabolism Boosters" in the corner of the box, tucked neatly beside "Daily Glow Hair and Nail" supplements and "Apple Cider Vinegar Fat Burning Gummies," as though external polish could disguise internal pressure.

There was a water bottle, too. One of those oversized, brightly colored ones with motivational affirmations running down the side like checkpoints in a race.

08:00 - Let's get lean!

12:00 - Keep drinking, queen!

18:00 - Almost done, girlfriend!

It was a product designed for encouragement, but to me, it read like a command. Even the plastic gleamed with expectation.

At the bottom of the box was a handwritten card. The glitter ink caught the light, shimmering in Melissa's familiar curly script.

"Hey Trina! You're a part of my perfect bridal party! Let's get perfectly toned and sculpted for the big day. You've got this! - Mel."

I sat very still, the card pinched between my fingers. The room around me stayed quiet, but inside, something in me shifted. There wasn't a crash or a crack, just the low, slow turning of a gear I thought I'd dismantled.

And just like that, the poke bowl sitting in front of me lost all appeal.

It wasn't embarrassment that hit me first. It was that deep, guttural ache. The kind that starts in your stomach and rises behind your eyes before you even realize it's there. It's the kind of ache that says, You are still too much and not enough, all at once.

I wasn't angry yet. I wasn't even sad. I was just suspended in that moment, caught between who I used to be and who I had fought to become. I thought I'd outrun this feeling. I thought I'd buried it. But here it was again, disguised in pastel packaging and a note written with a glitter pen.

And this time, it had come from someone I used to call my closest friend.

I've spent years trying to heal my relationship with my body. And it's never been linear. Healing, I've learned, isn't a straight path. It doubles back sometimes. It's not a straight staircase, it's a spiral.

And every once in a while, you pass by a version of yourself you thought you'd left behind.

There were the high school years, when I counted crackers and chewed gum to survive lunch. I remember sitting in class, stomach growling, pretending it was just the sound that my pants made when I moved. There were gym change rooms where I learned how to hold in my breath until my ribs hurt.

Then came the college years, filled with midnight binges and morning punishments. My dorm room smelled like peppermint tea and guilt. I once wrote a love poem to a pair of jeans two sizes too small.

I called it motivation. I taped it to my mirror and read it every morning like scripture.

But the last few years? I'd started dancing again. At first, alone in my apartment, then with a small group of women who never mentioned calories, only joy. I walked because it made me feel grounded. I chose food that made me feel alive, not virtuous. I could look in the mirror without narrowing my eyes.

Some days, I even smiled.

So no, I didn't feel embarrassed opening that box. I felt angry. And I felt hurt. Because it didn't come from a stranger. It came from Melissa, someone who should have known how hard I fought to get here.

In college, Melissa and I were inseparable. We survived bad tequila and worse breakups, shared thrifted jackets and silent cab rides. She once sat beside me all night while I cried over a literature professor.

"You're too passionate to be taken seriously, Trina," he'd said. "Seriously. When I ask questions, it's about the content we're studying... not your daydreams."

Melissa always had this polished edge to her. She had beach waves that never fell flat, matching luggage, and the kind of cursive you'd find in a Pinterest tutorial. Back then, she wore black like it was her birthright and always offered her "little tips."

"Try contouring your collarbones. It really elongates the neck!"

"Black is slimming, babe. Trust me. Get more black clothing."

Back then, I thought it was sisterhood. Now, I know better.

I left my poke bowl in the kitchen and decided to text Melissa privately.

"Hey, I wanted to say that I felt a little weird about getting a diet plan in the mail. It's not something that I'm comfortable with, Mel. If my body's going to be a problem, I'd rather step back from the bridal party. Call me soon."

It took thirteen minutes for her to respond. Eventually, my phone buzzed.

"Oh my god, Trina. Don't be so sensitive. I gave one to all the girls! It's just about looking cohesive. Nobody's attacking you. There's no need to leave my bridal party."

I let the message sit. My stomach churned. I told myself to breathe, to just take a moment, and calm down. Then my phone buzzed again.

"Okay, not to be weird... but Trina, did your bridesmaid box have diet stuff in it??"

This time, the text was from Kayla, someone I'd met and gotten to know through Melissa. We knew each other enough to chat during brunch and share memes and nail inspiration photos... but not enough to have any secrets together.

"Yeah. It had supplements, a meal plan. The works..."

Seconds later, Kayla replied.

"Right. Same! But I just talked to Jess. She got a satin robe, a champagne flute with her name on it, and a mini manicure set."

My fingers curled right around my phone.

"Just to confirm, Kayla," I typed. "You and I are the only two with food rules?"

Kayla didn't reply for a while, so I called her. My nerves needed to be soothed. I needed to know what was going on.

"Hey Trina," Kayla said, answering the phone on the second ring. "Sorry about that, I was just tied up with work. Look, I think we're the only two... We're the only two that's not a size 8 anyway..."

She paused for a moment.

"But last week, when I saw Melissa at the farmer's market, she told me that she was on her health journey to the wedding," Kayla continued. "And she said that all of us should be too. 'You know, I just figured certain people might appreciate the nudge.' That's what she said."

I was speechless.

A nudge?

More like a polite shove back into my place.

I didn't write back to Melissa immediately. I told myself I needed time to think, but the truth was... I needed time to calm the storm inside me. I stared at my phone, the screen glowing in my palm, and then set it down on the kitchen table like it might explode.

I spent the evening pacing. I opened my laptop, typed out a long message, then deleted it. Then another. And another. Each version said something slightly different, more direct, gentler, more angry, more forgiving.

But none of them felt right.

I wanted to tell her that I had spent years counting calories like they were sins... quiet, invisible wrongdoings I carried under my clothes. I wanted to tell her that I had made peace with a body she still seemed to believe needed fixing.

I wanted to remind her that once, when I was 19 and couldn't stop crying after being told I was "brave" for wearing shorts, she'd held me in the stairwell and said I was more than enough.

"When did it all stop being true, Mel?" I asked my empty living room.

But I also knew that if I said anything I wanted to, I'd never come out clean. I'd bleed out all over the screen and she'd just call it a mess that she didn't want to clean.

So what I sent was simple.

"Hey, Mel. I need to bow out. This doesn't feel right, and I want you to have a wedding day that feels perfect for you. But that no longer includes me."

I didn't expect a thank you in reply. But I also didn't expect what came next.

I sat down with a cup of tea and a slice of buttered toast. My appetite was non-existent, but I needed to keep my sugar levels steady. I was petting Cosmo, my cat, when the group chat lit up with Melissa's name.

"Wow. Just wow! Some people are truly too sensitive these days. I mean... gross. Trina literally walked out of my wedding because of a water bottle, some supplements, and an eating plan."

I sighed. But before I could do anything about that message, a stream of others appeared.

"I was trying to help her feel confident in the photos. But if that's offensive now, then I guess kindness is cancelled or something?"

Then Nicole, another friend of ours, chimed in.

"Maybe let's keep this conversation offline?"

"No, Nicole! I will not take it offline. I've bent over backward to make all of you feel included in my wedding, and this is what I get? I even chose lilac because it's 'universally flattering,' according to the internet... and apparently that was a crime, too."

"I specifically made sure that everyone got things to help them feel special. It's my big day! Sorry if some people chose to see that as an attack."

"But whatever. I want good vibes only at my wedding. If you can't handle that, then maybe you shouldn't be part of it."

Nicole replied with a thumbs-up emoji. Everyone else ignored Melissa's messages.

And Kayla?

She sent me another private text.

"You were right to walk away. I wish I had the guts to do the same..."

"You can do whatever you want, Kayla. It's called free will," I typed.

The next morning, I sat on my bed, the box still open on my dresser. The water bottle stood tall and cheerful, as if it hadn't insulted me. The supplement bottles clinked when I shook them.

I dropped them into the trash, and that was enough.

I didn't go for her. I went because part of me still lived in that space, in the plants, in the colorful guest mugs, in the hallway drawers full of spare chargers and lip balm.

I went to say goodbye.

Melissa's house looked exactly the same, white walls, pale wood floors, and hydrangeas in every room, like always. The scent of eucalyptus and overpriced linen spray wafted through the air.

She opened the door wearing a beige wrap dress and that signature polished smile, tight, curated, a little desperate around the edges.

"Thanks for coming," she said, stepping aside. "Things got kind of... blown up."

I nodded but didn't return the smile. I walked in like I belonged... because I used to. We sat across from each other in the living room. She twisted the gold ring on her finger, then sighed.

I let the silence stretch until it softened. She didn't bring up the lie about giving everyone the same box. Of course, she didn't. That would've meant admitting there were favorites… or worse, targets.

Melissa didn't apologize. She curated the damage.

"But it was," I said.

"Well, now half the bridal party's dropped out," she huffed. "And everyone thinks I'm the villain. I'm not! I just care about how things look. Is that such a crime? It's my special day!"

She looked at me like I owed her something.

"I think you'll have a beautiful wedding, Mel. But I'm not the accessory you're looking for," I smiled slowly. "Good luck getting everyone back."

She didn't respond. And I didn't need her to.

Some silences say everything.

When I got home, I had one more thing to do. I placed the fresh bakery-bought fig and apple tart on the kitchen counter and pulled the bridesmaid dress from my closet.

It was lilac and beautiful, with a fitted waist and a neckline that promised elegance. I slipped it on, not to see if it fit... but to reclaim my space.

The zipper slid up easily. The fabric hugged my shape. My reflection didn't demand change or improvement. I saw my arms, soft and strong. I saw my hips, wide and rooted.

I saw myself and smiled.

A few days later, Kayla sent me a video note.

"Hey, Trina. I just wanted you to know... I made an excuse and bowed out too. I told Mel that it was family stuff, but the truth is... I couldn't do it. Not after that. I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier. But thank you. You reminded me that we don't have to shrink ourselves for anyone."

They say weddings bring out the best or worst in people. But I think that they reveal the truth. Not all at once, not dramatically... but in small, glitter-covered ways.

I didn't lose a friend. I let go of a performance. And what I held onto instead... was me.

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Selena's life is quiet, too quiet. Until a letter from the past stirs something she thought was gone for good. As forgotten parts of herself begin to surface, she's faced with a choice: either stay invisible or step into the light. Sometimes walking away is the only way to be seen.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.