This wedding is a disaster.

Not because of who I'm marrying, no way in hell—but instead because I fell sick early morning yesterday.

I think it's the exhaustion and stress of touring—I'm constantly around fans, in stuffy stadiums with roughly 100,000 people packed in like sardines, all of us breathing the same bacterial air. I'd say I probably got sick from someone in Madrid on night two and the effects are just kicking in now; and, the wedding jitters and honeymoon stress are intensifying that said sickness.

We've been together since 2010, but have known each other since year 8 of high school. I proposed a year and a half ago, almost as soon as you turned 18, but I've been on tour so you've been doing a lot of the wedding planning, probably a good thing anyway. We've had this wedding date planned for awhile since I have nearly a month break now, meaning we can easily get away for a honeymoon.

I guess my body's stress response just couldn't take it anymore and finally gave out, but how convenient that I'm sick at our wedding.

Fortunately you've been incredibly understanding about the whole thing. Of course we couldn't just reschedule the wedding, we've had family from all over fly in just for us. However we did skip over the tradition of not seeing each other 24 hours prior to the wedding, you stayed with me last night and we agreed that I'd go to the ceremony and get the wedding photos, then duck out for you to entertain during reception. The honeymoon will have to be postponed a few days—a bit sucky because it's in Florence; I love Florence.

My body weight is leaning against yours, like it has been the whole ceremony. Upfront it probably just looks like I'm a clingy bastard, which I am even on a normal day, but I physically can't stand on my own right now.

Our vows are exchanged—though I have no doubts that I slurred half the words of mine. Yours were gorgeous, the lines I could actually hear over the ringing in my ears. Also your nephew—who was supposed to be our ring bearer—started hysterically crying when he had to bring forth the rings, so we recruited the next best child: Niall.

Your ring fits like a glove—glittering in the sunlight, you slide the wedding band onto my own finger, settling it above where I have your initial tattooed on my ring finger's proximal phalanx.

My lips are already on yours before the officiant can even finish saying that I can kiss my bride. Both because I'm eager to kiss you, and let the world know that you're my wife—and because I need to get out of here before I puke into the hydrangeas.

Our wedding photos are bound to look a bit odd, I should be tossing you into the air with a cheesy, married-man grin on my face, but instead all of them are just me hanging onto you for dear life, my cheeks red—unfortunately not from blushing, but a fever.

I'm grateful when you walk me out to the wedding car and offer me a lingering kiss before we part ways; words cannot begin to explain how completely devastated that I'm missing my own wedding. Liam will be giving a toast at the reception right about now, probably taking the mick out of the fact that I can't be there to celebrate. I should be there, sitting next to you at our table with the pretty garlands and table runners you so carefully picked out.

It feels like forever before our bedroom door finally creaks open, your silhouette appearing under the threshold. Our bedroom looks like a crime scene—our sheets are tangled from constantly taking them on and off through my inconsistent fevers and cold sweats, my wedding suit tossed onto the armchair as soon as I walked in so I'm in nothing but boxers.

But one thing is certain; I married you, we've tied the knot. You promised through sickness and in health.

"Wife" I lazily smile, reaching a hand out to you.