I’ve never worn a suit this tight in my life. It fits perfectly, of course—custom, black, the kind of sharp you wear once and remember forever. But it’s not the fabric that makes me feel like I can’t breathe, it’s this moment.

The church is quiet and I can feel my heart in my chest like it’s trying to escape, like it’s running up the aisle before I even get to see you.

You appear at the end of the aisle, like the universe stopped for a second just to frame you in that light. It’s stupid how beautiful you look, stupid and unfair and everything I never expected to have. My throat tightens, my chest aches and behind you, somewhere to the side, in a sparkly white dress and white sneakers, is Florence—our daughter, our little hurricane of joy and sass.

She’s the one who brought us here, in a way.

I was 19 when she was born. Her mum and I…well, it wasn’t really a love story, more like two people who shouldn’t have tried to make forever out of a moment. She left when Florence was just a few months old, didn’t say goodbye, just left a note, a small bag of baby clothes and the weight of everything in my arms.

I didn’t know anything—about nappies or bottles or fevers or sleep training, about loneliness, either—but I learned, because I had to, because she needed me to be someone I wasn’t yet—but I became him, for her.

By the time she turned two, I was still barely sleeping, still trying to juggle music, press, fans, being “Harry Styles” to the world while learning how to braid tiny pigtails backstage. That’s when I met you.

You didn’t flinch, you didn’t run. You bent down to Florence’s level and asked if her favorite color was glittery pink, she said “yes" and you said “mine too" and I think that was it—both of us already falling.

You were patient, kind, a calm that I didn’t know I needed until I had it. You never tried to replace anyone, you just showed up, day after day, loving her, loving me and we became something none of us planned, but everything we wanted.

And now, here we are.

Florence clutching a piece of pink paper she decorated herself, her cheeks are flushed with excitement, there’s glitter on her eyelids, something you helped her put on this morning. She clears her throat dramatically and I feel myself already starting to tear up.

“Hi Daddy,” she says, in that squeaky, perfect voice. “It’s me, Florence. I can’t believe it’s your wedding day!”

A wave of soft laughter rolls through the room and I can feel everyone melting around her. “I can see you look so handsome. But mummy looks really gorgeous.”

She grins at you and you blow her a kiss. “I love you to the moon and back. I can’t wait to party later and shake our bums, bums!”

The room breaks into laughter, even the priest is smiling. “I also hope that after this you and mummy will finally give me a sibling—but…anyways!”

She shrugs “I love you, Daddy, and I’m so happy you found the love of your life…well, the second one, ‘cause I’ll still be the one.”

My throat is burning now. “Hope this love will be forever, just like our little family.” She finishes.

I’m blinking fast, looking at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere to stop myself from crying in front of 150 people. But I do, just a little.

You’re standing next to me now, hand finding mine, thumb brushing my knuckles. Florence runs up and wraps her arms around my leg. I pick her up and hold her between us, right in the center where she’s always been.

This isn’t what I pictured when I thought about “forever.” It’s better. A second chance. A family made from love and timing and the absolute refusal to give up on joy.