“What do you mean I love you too much?!” Josh cried out, practically tripping over the flower-strewn steps of their grand wedding venue as he tore after his fleeing spouse. The shocked gasps of guests echoed behind him—alongside the distant clinking of dropped champagne flutes and someone’s distant 'Wait, is this part of the vows?'—but he barely heard a thing.

His polished dress shoes clacked dramatically against the pavement, utterly unsuited for sprinting but fiercely committed to the bit. His tailored coat flapped wildly behind him like some sort of desperate, lovesick superhero cape. The sight of a grown man, in full wedding tux, bolting down the street with the emotional intensity of a man chasing a dropped ice cream cone, was nothing short of...well, cinematic. Or tragic. Or comedy. No one could quite decide. “I won’t love you a lot then!” he shouted helplessly, ducking under a stray balloon that had floated out from the reception. “I'll ration it! One spoon of love a day—even five working days a week!"

His spouse, elegant in their wedding attire, whipped around briefly from the bottom of the hill they were storming down, their face flushed with frustration and panic, maybe heartbreak. Josh panted, trying to catch up, and suddenly found himself staring down a long set of suspiciously steep public stairs. “Oh, come on,” he muttered at the universe, before squaring his shoulders and carefully power-walking down them like a high-speed penguin in Gucci. After the small health hazard, without missing another beat, he bolted again, hair windswept, tie flapping wildly over one shoulder. “Just talk to me!” he cried. “Or at least walk slower! I’m romantic, not athletic!”