If someone had told me this morning that by evening Id be standing in a white shirt, clutching someone elses bouquet, forcing a smile, and vowing before strangers to “always support their union,” Id have laughed, tapped my temple, and carried on making my porridge while gazing peacefully out at the quiet street. No omens, no odd coincidencesjust an ordinary morning. But life, as it turns out, loves dropping surprises without warning, especially when youre in slippers, holding a mug of coffee.
It all started when I popped into the registry office. Not for a reasontheres a kiosk opposite selling the best hot dogs in town, and I was heading there with the purest intentions. The queue, the smell of fresh buns, grilled sausages, and mustardall perfectly normal. Then, out of nowhere, a sleek black car decked with ribbons and roses pulled up, gleaming like something from a film, and a loud, laughing crowd spilled out. Cheers, phone flashes, clouds of perfume, party popperssuddenly, I was swept up in chaos, as if Id stumbled onto the set of a festive music video.
One of the bridesmaids, in a sparkling emerald-green dress, rushed over and grabbed my arm with the confidence of someone whod known me forever.
“There he is! Our second witness!”
I glanced behind memaybe they meant someone else. But no. Everyone was staring. Someone whistled, others clapped louder, and suddenly, I was the centre of attention, like an actor whod wandered onto the wrong stage.
“Wait, Im actually” I began, but it was too late. They dragged me inside, shoved a boutonnière into my hands, and positioned me beside a tall bloke in a suit so crisp he looked freshly ironedthough he seemed unsure whether to laugh or panic.
“Hold the bouquet, smile,” the green-clad bridesmaid hissed, adjusting my boutonnière like she did this daily. “Our real witness is stuck in trafficyoure saving the day. Just dont blink too much, or youll look like an owl in the photos.”
I meant to refuse. Honestly. I even opened my mouth, but then the wedding march blaredloud, grand, echoing through the hall. The doors swung open, and the procession surged forward like clockwork. Me included, as if Id missed the memo about my own role.
It was one of the strangest moments of my life. I stood beside the groom, who kept fussing with his sleeve and checking his watch like he was late to his own wedding, and the bride, who looked ready to cry from joy and nerves all at once. She kept biting her lip, her veil trembling with every breath. I didnt know their names. I wasnt even sure I was holding the bouquet rightwhich hand, what angle, whether I looked like a complete fraud.
When the registrar called the witnesses forward, I stepped up and it hit me: I was living a sitcom scene. Everyone watching. Cameras flashing. The photographer snapping away like he was documenting history. And me, a man whod come for a hot dog, was now officially part of a strangers weddingstamps, signatures, and all.
The wildest part? No one noticed. Not the groom, the bride, or the aunties in the front row dabbing their eyes. I signed the register, posed for photos, and then the green bridesmaid handed me a slice of cake and a glass of champagne like it was always the plan.
“Cheers, you saved us!” she said, grinning with a wink. “If you ever need a favour, just shout. Youre one of us now.”
When I finally stepped outside, I had a bouquet in hand, a napkin with the bridesmaids number in my pocket, wedding music still ringing in my ears, and one clear thought: porridge was definitely off the menu. Instead of a quiet morning, Id gotten an impromptu celebration, a glass of bubbly, and the odd feeling Id just starred in someone elses rom-com.
