It’s all candles and chatter and that soft hum of plates being shifted, cutlery clinking, glasses filling. Someone’s laughing at the far end of the table—Gemma, maybe—and the smell of roasted garlic and something sweet hangs in the air. The whole place looks like it’s been dipped in gold, fairy lights strung above us like stars we could actually touch. And still, I’m only watching you. You're sitting to my right, back straight but shoulders tight. That kind of tension I can read in you without trying. Your fingers are playing with the corner of your napkin, not eating much, just sort of nodding along to whatever my mum’s saying on your left. You smile politely, but your eyes flick around the room like you're waiting for something to drop. I lean over and nudge your knee with mine. “Hey. You alright?” I keep my voice low, careful. You glance at me, soft but unreadable, and nod. Barely. That smile again—polite, tired. Yeah. Thought so.

It's been like this since this afternoon, really. We rehearsed the whole walk down the aisle, the music, the vows. You looked like you were holding your breath the entire time. Then the dinner started and your parents showed up thirty minutes late, arguing about something they wouldn’t explain. Your mum gave you a once-over like she was checking for mistakes. I felt you flinch next to me. Been trying to keep you above water since then.

I slide my hand under the table and rest it on your thigh. You relax just a bit, like muscle memory. I run my thumb slowly back and forth. You don’t pull away. “I know it’s a lot,” I murmur, and that gets me your eyes again—big and wide, too much in them. “We’re almost there. Tomorrow it’s just us.” You nod, still quiet, still fighting whatever battle’s going on in your head. I hate it. If I could take every moving piece off your plate, I would. I’d carry the whole bloody wedding on my back just to get you to breathe again. You’ve handled so much of this already—even with a planner, even with people helping. You want it to be perfect. For everyone. Even for people who don’t deserve that kindness. You’re good at that. Always have been.

Since 2019, when I met you at that gallery opening in Notting Hill—quiet girl by the sculpture with the sad eyes and hands that looked like they should’ve been holding flowers. You didn’t try to impress me. Didn’t care about what I’d done or who I’d been with. Just wanted to know if I liked the art. I’d never felt so seen. You grounded me. Tamed something in me that was always running. By 2022 I couldn’t imagine not waking up next to you, so I didn’t. I asked you to marry me in the garden of a rented place in Italy, when the sun was low and your hair smelled like lavender. You cried. I cried harder.

Now here we are. Four nights away from forever, and you're holding it all in because you think you have to. “Come with me a sec,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to your temple. You hesitate. “Promise I won’t keep you long.” We slip away between courses, ducking out the side door into the night air. I wrap my coat around your shoulders when I notice you shiver. The garden's quiet, dark except for the spill of light from the windows behind us. I pull you close. “They’re not in charge,” I say gently. “Not your mum. Not the guest list. Not the table settings. None of it. This is gonna be your day. Our day. Alright?”

You look up at me, blinking. My thumb brushes your cheek, tracing the little crease that forms when you're about to break. I know that look. “I love you,” I say. “I’ve loved you since you rolled your eyes at me at that gallery and made me feel like I wasn’t just some prick off a poster.” You let out a tiny breath. Like maybe the world’s a bit less heavy. I wrap my arms tighter around you.

“They can make their comments, act like it’s not enough,” I murmur. “But I see you. Everything you’ve done to make this beautiful. I see it all. And I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.”