If someone had told me that morning that by evening Id be standing in a white shirt, holding someone elses bouquet, with a strained smile on my face, swearing before strangers to “always support their union,” Id have laughed, tapped my temple, and carried on making my porridge while gazing at the peaceful street outside. No omens, no suspicious coincidencesjust an ordinary morning. But life, as it turns out, loves throwing tasks your way without warning, and it does so most dramatically when youre in slippers with a mug of coffee in hand.
It all began when I popped into the registry office. Not for official businessopposite it was a kiosk selling the best hot dogs in town, and Id gone there with the purest of intentions. The queue, the smell of fresh buns, grilled sausages, and mustardall perfectly normal. Then, out of nowhere, a black car decked with ribbons and roses pulled up, gleaming like something out of a film, and a boisterous crowd spilled out. Laughter, clapping, phone flashes, clouds of perfume, party poppersit all swirled around me so suddenly, as if Id stumbled onto the set of a celebratory music video.
One of the bridesmaids, in a bright green dress with sequins, dashed over, grabbed my arm with the confidence of someone whod known me her whole life, and declared, “There he is! Our second witness!”
I even glanced behind memaybe someone else was standing there. But no. Everyone was staring at me, some whistling, others clapping louder, and suddenly I was the centre of attention, like an actor whod wandered onto the wrong stage.
“Wait, Im actually” I started, but it was too late. They dragged me inside, shoved a boutonnière into my hands, and positioned me next to a tall bloke in a suit so crisp it looked like hed been ironed while wearing it. He seemed unsure whether to laugh or brace himself.
“Hold the bouquet, smile,” hissed the green-clad bridesmaid, adjusting my boutonnière as if 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. My mouth was already open, but then the wedding march blaredloud, triumphant, echoing through the hall. The doors swung open, and as if on cue, the whole procession moved forward, me included, as though Id forgotten I was part of the script.
Truth be told, it was one of the strangest scenes of my life. I stood beside the groom, who kept fidgeting with his sleeve and checking his watch like he was afraid of missing his own wedding, and the bride, who looked ready to cry from both joy and nerves. She kept sighing deeply or 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 impostor.
When the registrar called the witnesses forward, I stepped up and it hit me: I was living a sitcom moment. Everyone was watching. Cameras were rolling. The photographer clicked away like he was documenting history. And me, a man whod just wanted a hot dog, was now part of someone elses weddingofficially, with a seal and a fanfare.
The strangest part? No one noticed the switch. Not the groom, not the bride, not the aunties in the front row clutching tissues. I signed the register with confidence, posed for photos, and then the green-clad bridesmaid handed me a slice of cake and a glass of champagne as if it had all been planned from the start.
“Cheers, you saved us!” she said, laughing with a wink. “If you ever need a favour, just shout. Youre one of us now.”
When I finally left the registry office, I had a bouquet in hand, a napkin with the bridesmaids number in my pocket, wedding music still ringing in my ears, and the dawning realisation that porridge was definitely off the menu that day. Instead of a quiet morning, Id stumbled into an impromptu celebration, a glass of bubbly, and the uncanny feeling Id just played a leading role in someone elses rom-com.
