It should have been you. It should have been you at that altar, it should have been you reciting vows in a shaky voice. You’d always been there to pick her back up and put the pieces together after one of their fights. You’d always patiently listened to every complaint she made, every story that needed telling, every guilty confession that would threaten her precious public image.
It should have been you that evening, stammering out your heart to her as the porchlight buzzed with fireflies. It should have been you who waited, blushing and stamping, as she processed your feelings and gently lifted your head with a manicured hoof and looked at you with her bright blue eyes and smiled. It should have been you at that Fancy restaurant, grinning like a fool and spilling coffee on the crisp linen tablecloth. It should have been you she called uncouth, terrible, whom she whacked playfully with her tail on the way out.
It should have been you she caressed and cuddled and kissed. Her whispered words of love and desire and faithfulness should have drifted into your ears. Her extra hairbrush and cosmetic kit could have found their rightful place in your dresser, always a bit too large for one pony. Your pillowcases could have carried her fragrant shampoo even after several washings, your sheets could have carried her fine white hairs tucked neatly into the weave. Your hooves could have felt her warmth, the softness of her coat, the fullness of her mane. You could have had her beside you for every day and night. You could have shared her life as you have never shared the life of another, could have let down what awkward walls you still carry inside you. You could have been safe, you could have been vulnerable. Because it was her, it would be alright.
But instead you just watched and heard and stewed, so this is your reward. So instead, you smile again, a worn-out ceremonial thing, as flat and inappropriate as the robes she didn’t make you. So instead, you raise your wings beneficently and smile at your two friends, radiant and beaming and close to each other, even through the three feet of distance. So instead, you nod your head once and keep the trembles out of your voice. So instead, you speak, and your voice carries through the rafters, wise and warm and caring. So instead, you say, “You may now kiss your bride.”
White and pink lips meet below lovely, intricate half-veils, and it’s all you can do to keep from screaming, from crying, from fleeing the scene in anguish. Because it should have been you. It could have been you kissing here, before all assembled. It could have been you pressing harder into her face, matching her passion with tears of joy, knowing that you’d been bound to her side for all the time you had together. But instead, you watch with the mask of a Princess, the faint and ever-present knowing smile and shining eyes. This is your reward.