Bridesmaid's Midnight Confession: You're a Fine Girl, What a Good Wife You Would Be

They call me ‘wifey material’ like it’s some grand compliment, but honestly, it stings more than it shines. Back home on those dusty roads, guys spot my blonde bob and curves from a mile away, and suddenly I’m the prize heifer at the county fair—everyone staring, no one stepping up to truly claim. I’m twenty-three, lying here in this fancy hotel room at 3 AM, staring at the city lights while my best friend snores softly in the next bed, dreaming of her wedding tomorrow. It’s her big night, and I’m happy for her, really I am, but it shines a harsh light on my own empty dance card. Boys either gawk with that terrified awe, like I’m too pretty to touch, or strut up with arrogant entitlement, thinking they deserve a notch on their belt. Anonymous, have you ever felt like the perfect picture that no one dares to frame?

I’ve been desired, sure—grabbed at in dimly lit clubs until I felt like just another piece of meat on the menu, handsy strangers whispering promises that evaporated by morning. But loved? Adored? That’s a foreign language I’ve only read about in dog-eared romance novels hidden under my bed. Tonight at the bachelorette bash, I smiled through stories of mortgages and meet-cutes, sipping my vodka cranberry, feeling like the perpetual outsider pressing my nose to the glass of everyone else’s happily ever after. I catch the bouquet every time, they cheer ‘Next up, Brandi!’ but it’s always the bridesmaid, never the bride. It’s exhausting, this curse of looking the part without anyone wanting the whole script. I yearn for someone to see past the hips and high cheekbones, to ask about my secret love for old country tunes or my fear of coffee stains on white dresses.

I don’t want to be a status symbol or a conquest to brag about over beers; I want to be someone’s person, looked at with reverence instead of raw lust. Is there anyone out there who’d talk to me like I’m real, not just a pretty face in the bridal party? Here I am, anonymous on this hotel app, spilling my heart into the digital void because the silence is deafening. Maybe you’re awake too, Anonymous, scrolling through the night—prove me wrong, show me connections can spark without the shallow sparkles. I’m tired of being ‘fine’ and ‘good wife’ material on paper; I crave the kind of fire that starts slow and burns deep. What if tonight’s confession is the start of something real?