Yesterday evening, the internet breathed a collective sigh of relief as Deepika Padukone’s assistant’s finger pressed ‘post’ on the actress’s Instagram account, releasing the first two official photos of Deepika’s wedding to Ranveer Singh.

I was not one of them, even though I, too, was eagerly waiting for these photos.

Not to celebrate their union. I mean, I like Deepika Padukone. I like her movies, own some of her label’s clothes, and appreciate her outspokenness regarding mental health. I also enjoy receiving the odd text from admiring fans who have mistaken my number for hers for years. (Thank you, *number redacted*, I do have nice hair today!) But I find Ranveer Singh’s public persona over the top and dirty-hot in a way that makes me … squint. In short, DeepVeer is not my dream couple, but who can plumb the depths of love between two people, and if they’re happy, I’m happy for them. (Masel tov, you two.)

No, I was stalking their wedding for one thing, and one thing only: the outfits. And the photos only show wrinkled and bunched up cloth. My heart broke; already, I considered divorce from this 100% one-sided relationship. Guys — is a standing-up photo and figurative (or literal!) twirl too much to ask? What else could possibly make these photos more important than one that shows the full outfits?

I secretly (and not so secretly now) love fashion. You’d never know it; in my daily life, I am constantly one piece of jersey fabric away from looking like it’s always bedtime o’clock. If it’s not comfortable, I don’t wear it. And if it’s trendy, I buy it in six months when its on sale (and the trend is over).

But fancy clothes — that is, looking at and dreaming about fancy clothes — are my jam. I want to salivate over the cut of Ranveer’s kurta, the embroidery on Deepika’s lehenga. To imagine myself not in their shoes, in the colloquial sense, just in their clothes. Fancy clothes transport you to a place where you walk elegantly, your hair never frizzes, and the lighting is always the warm, subtle glow of a sophisticated party. Oh, and you’re rich, of course, and only speak in witty reparte.

Fancy clothes aren’t about the people wearing them. Fancy clothes are about you wearing them — who you’d be, what you’d say, where you’d go in them. They are a vehicle for an alternative narrative for yourself and your life — not one that you actively care about achieving, just one that’s nice to visit now and then.

And so, I wait — not for photos of a fairy tale wedding, but of fairy tale clothes.