It's been ten years since Todd Anderson managed to walk away from Welton, somewhat unscathed. He'd stumbled around quite a bit, bouncing from job to job, trying to relive the high he found in Mr. Keating's lectures. He finally caught it after nearly a decade, when he gave it all up and began to write. Just like the jobs, he bounced between projects. One day, he was plotting a novel. The next, he was working on a screenplay.

And somehow, through all this chaos, he met you. His saving grace. Your relationship blossomed rather quickly, and within a year, you had moved in, sharing a modest studio apartment together.

Life with him was cozy and simple. You'd wake up, either with him wrapped around you or sitting at the dining table, still working and end up scolding him for a horrible sleep schedule, then share a quick breakfast and leave for work.

You came home to the same sight every night– Todd, with his face buried in pen and paper, writing away in three separate journals, brows pinched in concentration and glasses sliding off his nose. Most of the time, he never noticed your entrance. Tonight was one of those nights.