People always used to ask us the same thing.
“When’s the big day?”
“When are you two going to settle down?”
“Any little ones on the way?”
We’d smile. Maybe laugh a little. Then steer the conversation elsewhere. Not because we weren’t in love—but because we were. In a way that never quite fit the mold others tried to place us in.
We never filled out forms or chose wedding colors. Never sat through cake tastings or argued over seating charts. And we never rocked a baby that carried both our names.
But what we did do—was hold on to each other.
We built a life filled with slow mornings and mediocre coffee. With silly traditions and inside jokes that still crack us up decades later. Dinners that ran late because we kept getting caught up dancing in the kitchen instead of actually cooking.
That picture? It was one of those nights. She was trying to make broccoli, and I was being a distraction—pulling her into a hug from behind and pretending I knew what I was doing when I took the knife from her. She rolled her eyes, but she smiled, too.
There’s no wedding band on her finger. No tiny footsteps echoing down the hallway.
But if love is measured in laughter, trust, and the way you know someone’s breakfast order without needing to ask—then we’re overflowing with it.
We didn’t have the typical markers. No milestones to share in Christmas cards or post on social media. But we had something just as powerful—maybe even more so. A quiet, steady love that didn’t demand attention. A bond made of knowing glances, synced rhythms, and understanding each other without speaking.
People said we were lucky to find one another. And maybe, in a way, they were right. But it wasn’t luck that kept us together—it was choice. Every single day, we chose this life. One that didn’t follow the expected script but still felt beautifully whole.
Still, there were times when the world crept in. Not doubt between us—but from others. The subtle comments at family gatherings. The questions that popped up at weddings.
“So, when are you two going to finally settle down?”
“Don’t you ever think about having kids?”
It was hard not to feel the weight of it. Like we were being quietly judged. Like our version of love was somehow incomplete. And in those moments, I wondered if maybe we’d missed something. If we were getting it wrong.
One evening, curled up on the couch with mugs of tea and a slice of cake neither of us really wanted but felt too guilty to waste, I turned to her.
“Do you ever wonder if we made the wrong choice?” I asked. “Not having kids. Not getting married. Do you think… maybe we were being selfish, choosing a life that’s just about us?”