Always the Bridesmaid, Never the Groom?

From a distance, I watch the smiling couple exchange vows under the adoring gaze of the guests. The soft music, the sound of applause... everything should be perfect. And it would be, if not for one absurd, surreal, unthinkable detail: I was supposed to be up there. Not just “supposed to” — I am the groom. Or at least, I was.

Want to know how this happened? Take a seat, take a breath — because I barely understand it myself.

On the morning of the wedding, I was putting the final touches on my suit when the doorbell rang. Odd. Who would show up unannounced on a day like this? I opened the door and was surprised to see Isadora — Rita’s best friend — already dressed for the ceremony, looking flawless as always. Her being there made no sense.

Isadora never liked me. That much was obvious. Every time we met, she threw cold looks, sharp remarks, and stony silences. I always figured it was jealousy, or maybe that over-intense kind of friendship she had with Rita… but I never imagined there was something deeper.

She walked in without asking and gave me a serious look. No small talk.
— I never believed you were the one to make Rita happy, — she said. — But I brought you something for good luck.

In her hand, she held an old pendant, dark and delicate, hanging from a thin chain. There was something off about it… something alive. I hesitated, but before I could pull back, she grabbed my hand and pressed the charm into my skin.

It was like falling off a cliff.

A flash of light. Pressure in my chest. A cold rush crawling up my spine. A strange, twisting sensation below the waist... And then, silence. When I came to, I was staring into a face I knew all too well — my own. Staring back at me. And smiling.

— It worked! — my voice said.

Isadora, now in my body, let out a satisfied laugh. Then she laid it all bare. She’d been in love with Rita for years. Never told her, knowing Rita would never return the feelings — at least not for another woman.

So, desperate, she dove into the darkest corners of the internet — forums on the occult, ancient rituals, urban legends — and found the pendant. A soul-swapping artifact. And now, here she was, wearing my face, living my life, marrying my fiancée.

— You don’t stand a chance, — she said, coldly. — Rita told me so much about you that I know how to be you in almost every detail. And if you try to tell anyone the truth… they'll lock you in a psych ward. Magic doesn’t exist, remember?

So here I am. At the corner of the reception. Wearing a bridesmaid’s dress I never chose, stealing glances at the woman who stole my life. Trying to stay calm. Trying to think.

What do I do now? How do I get my life back? And if I can’t… how do I live as someone else — forever?