A cousin I am missing

My cousin is getting married in two weeks. The invitation came on thick paper with a date I already knew I could not keep. I have a deadline that will not move, and the flights do not line up with the work I still owe. I told her yes in my head for a full day before I wrote the real message.

We did a video call so I could see the dress options. The connection froze twice on her face mid-laugh. She held up fabric to the camera. “Which one looks less like a curtain?” I picked the softer one and meant it. When we hung up I sat with the quiet of the room and felt the specific small guilt of a screen standing in for a hug at the door.

My mother called that evening. She asked about the deadline first, which is her way of being careful. Then she said, “The table will miss you,” and left a pause long enough for me to fill it if I wanted to. I did not. She did not push. The disappointment sat between us like a coat left on a chair, visible and unclaimed.

I will send money for a gift and watch the photos land in the group chat a day late. I keep thinking about the courtyard where the reception is supposed to be, the one with the crooked apricot tree. I have stood under it before. This time I will not. That is the whole of it, and it is enough to sit strangely in the chest for a while.