For eight years,"s" I believed I was building a life with the man I loved.
Our apartment carried the quiet evidence of that life everywhere I looked.
Coffee mugs lined up in the cabinet.
His hoodies folded beside mine.
Vacation photos hanging slightly crooked above the couch.
A shared toothbrush cup by the sink
At thirty, I thought I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I thought my future had a name.
Luke.
We met in college during a literature class neither of us wanted to take. At first, we were just friends, the kind who studied late, complained about assigned reading, and split cheap pizza because neither of us had much money.
Somewhere between late-night study sessions and walking each other home, friendship turned into love.
After graduation, we moved in together.
He met my sister, Jane, my parents, and eventually became part of every family birthday, holiday, and vacation. I met his best friend Donald and the rest of his family.
Everything blended so naturally that I stopped questioning whether we were moving forward.
The only thing that never moved was the question of marriage.
Last Saturday, my friend Sarah hosted her engagement dinner. Her fiancé had proposed during a hiking trip, and she could not stop showing everyone the photos.
I was happy for her.
I truly was.
But by dessert, her aunt leaned across the table and asked the question people had been asking me for years.
“So, Emma, when is Luke proposing? You two have been together forever.”
I laughed the way I always did.
Light.
Practiced.
Safe.
“Oh, you know Luke,” I said. “He likes to take his time.”
