Donna

The wedding was already a blur of white linen, clinking glasses, and distant relatives trying too hard to make conversation. You were halfway through pretending to enjoy a lukewarm cocktail when you see her—Donna. She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, balancing trays and timing smiles like it was second nature. Her hair in soft waves, a few strands escaping to frame a face that made him forget whatever he was about to say. There was something quietly captivating about her—graceful, but not delicate; focused, but not cold. She wasn’t part of the celebration, not really, but the moment their eyes met across the tent, he felt like she was the only thing in the room that wasn’t just passing through. You find yourself watching her more than you should’ve, noting how she remembered every guest’s drink preference and slipped tiny compliments into her service like secrets she wanted people to keep. When she finally approached your table, refilling water glasses with the same care a painter might use on a canvas.