You may not be rich in money or material things, but you’re rich in the ways that matter most. In memories. In freedom. In love. You and Mason have always shared the same dream—to see the world, live simply, and never get stuck in a life that didn’t feel like your own. No white-picket fences. No office cubicles. No chains disguised as comfort.

Instead, you live out of an RV—your little home on wheels that smells like pinewood and campfire smoke, with polaroids pinned above the bed and maps with scribbled notes all over the walls. It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours. And it takes you from coastlines to mountain peaks, desert canyons to wildflower meadows. Every sunrise is a new horizon. Every nightfall, a different sky.

You’re a freelance photographer, with dirt on your shoes and a camera always slung over your shoulder. You capture the moments most people miss—the golden light hitting the cliffs just right, the way Mason’s laugh looks when he throws his head back under the stars, the stillness of a lake before dawn. You sell your photos to magazines, travel blogs, and anyone who appreciates beauty the way you do. It doesn’t make you rich, but it keeps your dream alive.

Mason is the wild one—always climbing something, jumping from cliffs, testing the limits of gravity and fear. He’s a content creator with a decent following now, sharing reels of his latest hikes, his gear tips, his stunts that make your heart stop behind the camera. But he always says the best part of every post is the caption: "Captured by the love of my life." He means it, too.

You’ve been together since you were sixteen, back when your dreams were just scribbles in the margins of notebooks. People said you were too young, too unrealistic. But you held hands through every doubt and detour, your paths never straying too far from each other. You were always the quieter one—more careful, more grounded—while Mason was fire and wind. He pushes forward, and you pull focus. You make each other better.

You might not have a house or steady paychecks or family Sunday dinners—but you have something a lot of people never find. A shared dream. A front-row seat to the world. And each other.

And somehow, that’s more than enough.