Dress Rehearsal for the End of the World

“I didn’t get dressed for a party. I got dressed for war. The difference is mostly fabric.”

"Not bad," I murmured to myself, the words barely more than breath as I stood before the full-length leaner mirror, its worn brass corners catching the low light of the room. The reflection that met me was unexpectedly poised—composed elegance, neatly tied and zipped into place. A mask. A costume. A skin I didn’t entirely recognise as mine.

I pivoted slightly, slow half-twirls to either side, the soft creak of the floor beneath me sounding far too loud in the hush of the house. The dress moved with me, obedient and fluid, the sweeping skirt catching the air in graceful arcs as it swayed just below the knee. Its midnight fabric shimmered faintly, the sort of movement that demanded attention—and in doing so, set my teeth ever so slightly on edge.

My fingers trailed across the intricate floral lace that mapped the bodice, absorbing its texture—delicate, ornate, purposeful. It fit perfectly, as if sewn with my silhouette already in mind, which only added to the quiet discomfort bubbling beneath my ribs. I’d spent too long adjusting the elbow-length lace sleeves, redoing the ties three separate times until they hugged the curve of my arms just right, until it felt like I had earned the right to be here—in this skin, in this moment.

Turning my body sideways, I craned slightly to check the corset tie at the back. Still neatly done. No slack, no mess. That too had taken time. Every loop, every pull, an attempt to control something—anything—in a world increasingly void of logic or certainty.

Facing the mirror again, I lifted one hand and brushed my cheek, fingertips grazing the skin with a gentleness I hadn’t meant to feel. The movement was involuntary. A muscle memory. A ghost of grief. This dress—the very one I wore today—had made its debut in the cold pews of Brody’s funeral. That morning came back in flashes now: the biting wind outside the church, the heavy scent of lilies, the silence so thick it roared in my ears. My throat constricted, a whisper of that old sorrow tightening beneath the sternum.

The same dress, the same lace, the same impossible weight. Only this time, the grief hadn’t been invited—but it had shown up anyway, buttoned into the seams with me.

Am I being callous by wearing this again? The question reverberated through the stillness, not loud but impossibly present, a whisper of guilt threading itself through the ritual of my preparation. It hovered there—unwelcome yet insistent—as I studied my reflection, my lips parting before I even knew I would speak.

"No," I answered softly, the word barely audible, a murmur meant for the woman in the mirror more than for the room around me. It was a rebuttal to the doubt, a small act of defiance against the undercurrent of shame trying to take hold.

I could almost feel Brody beside me, his hands firm and warm at my waist, his steady presence anchoring mine. I saw the way he’d look at me—truly look at me. That quiet nod of approval. That gentle, knowing smirk that said you’re allowed to take up space. You’re allowed to be seen.

"Brody would have told me that I was beautiful."

The words caught in my throat as I said them, a truth wrapped in memory. I exhaled, the breath long and weighted, as though it could blow out the flickering candle of grief that never fully extinguished.

The time between then and now felt at once like a chasm and a blink. The dress, though stitched with sorrow, no longer belonged solely to mourning. Tonight, it felt appropriate. Not just for its cut and quiet elegance, but because it grounded me in something real—something that reminded me who I had been, who I still was, underneath all of this.

I reached for my phone, a habitual flick of the wrist revealing no new messages, no surprise reprieve from the evening ahead. Of course not.

After the day I'm having, I feel like I'm about to attend my own funeral.

The thought was grim, laced with a humour so dry it nearly cracked my composure. I let out a half-huff, half-laugh, the noise bouncing briefly off the quiet walls. Maybe there was truth in it. Not death, exactly—but transformation. A version of me was being laid to rest tonight. And another one—one I didn’t quite recognise—was taking her place.

Phone in hand, I dropped it into the matching black purse with a decisive thunk, the sound final. I turned from the mirror, leaving behind the reflection that had challenged me, consoled me, and reminded me of who I used to be. The room faded behind me, its silence like a held breath.

The skirt whispered against my legs as I stepped into the hallway, the fabric fluid and soft against the skin, but its movement belied the tight coil of anxiety pressed into my chest. Every step away from my room felt like a commitment—to the night, to the charade, to the promise of carrying out Leigh’s errand. But also to endurance.

Because this wasn’t just a function.

This was a test.