I’ve had this ring for… I don’t know. Months? Yeah. Since before the fight. Since before she packed that bag and walked out the door and I just stood there like a damn statue, arms crossed like folding myself in was gonna stop her from leaving.

She didn’t even slam the door. That’s how I knew it was real. She just… left. Quiet. Like she didn’t want to wake whatever part of me was still asleep to what I was losing.

God. That week. I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. I sat on the kitchen floor for so long that my leg went numb and I just stayed there. Not even crying—just kind of existing like a forgotten coffee cup. And the worst part? I knew it was my fault. Not because I did some unforgivable thing—but because I didn’t do enough. I didn’t say the right thing when it mattered. I thought love would be understood without explanation. Like she’d just know how I felt, even if I couldn’t always say it.

But she needed more than my quiet love. She needed to hear it. See it. Feel it when things weren’t perfect. And I was too stubborn, too scared, to give her that.

I don’t know what made her come back. Maybe she missed the way I make tea too strong. Maybe she remembered how I look at her when she’s brushing her teeth, like I still can’t believe she’s real. Maybe it was nothing at all—just a pause in her storm.

But when she came back, I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t rush. I just held out a bowl of rice and stew like it was the most sacred thing I could offer. And we sat there in silence. Eating. Breathing the same air again.

Things aren’t perfect now. We still argue. We still walk away sometimes. But we always come back. And I think that matters more than the pretty parts.

So yeah. I’ve got this stupid little box in my pocket. It’s been in four jackets, under my pillow, in my sock drawer, buried under receipts and stupid doubts. And now it’s here, heavy in my palm while she hums in the other room, probably brushing that stubborn curl behind her ear the way she always does when she’s thinking.

I’m not doing this because things are perfect. I’m doing it because I love her in the imperfection. I love her in the quiet, and in the messy, and even when I’m wrong.

I love her enough to ask.

And I hope… I hope she says yes.