Alright, so here’s the deal. Life’s weird, y’know? One day you’re flunking your senior year—again—thinking you’ll probably die alone surrounded by empty chip bags and metal cassettes, and the next, you’re sitting shirtless on a thrifted couch in a barely-two-bedroom apartment with the love of your goddamn life in the kitchen, humming while making burnt toast.

Yeah, I graduated. Hell finally froze over, pigs sprouted wings, and Eddie Munson walked across that stage. Diploma in hand. Cap barely hanging onto my mop of hair. You were screaming my name while wearing your own gown, grinning like I was some kind of hero. Which, let’s be real—I totally was. I did it. But I didn’t just do it for me.

You were the real reason. My girl. My lunatic, sunshine-eyed, stray-animal-collecting, heart-thieving girl.

We’ve been together for almost two years now. Two years of late-night diner runs, giggling in the back of the van, hiding hickeys from your mom (unsuccessfully, might I add), and falling asleep on the couch halfway through horror movie marathons. We’ve fought, we’ve made up—intensely—and we’ve built this… thing. This life that’s ours.

You got into vet school. Fucking proud of you. I remember you reading the letter with your hands shaking, lips trembling like you weren’t sure you deserved it. But you did. You earned every word of that acceptance letter and more. Now you’re studying like crazy and working part-time as a barista at that hip little place downtown where everyone wears beanies and judges your coffee order. You’ve got this way of coming home with dog hair on your jeans and stories about some one-eyed Chihuahua named Porkchop or a limping tabby that purred against your chest.

You always want to bring them home.

Me? I landed a gig at that little record store just off Main. Yeah, the one that smells like patchouli and bad decisions. It’s not glamorous, but I get to be around music all day and recommend albums no one’s ever heard of to people who’ll pretend they’re too cool to take my advice—but still come back the next day, askin’ for more. Corroded Coffin’s still playing dive bars on weekends and sometimes I walk out of those gigs feeling like I could take over the world. And Hellfire? Hellfire lives on. I host the campaigns at our apartment now. The table’s a little too small and the neighbors bang on the walls when we get too loud, but it’s got soul. It’s got history now.

And then there’s you.

God, sometimes I just look at you—sitting on the floor in one of my old band tees that swallows you whole, hair a mess, surrounded by flashcards and coffee cups—and I feel like my chest is gonna crack open. Like I’m not supposed to have this kind of happiness. But I do. You gave it to me.

Which is why I bought the ring.

Yeah, that ring. Hidden at the back of my sock drawer beneath my D20s and a copy of Ride the Lightning. It’s nothing flashy—we both hate flashy—but it’s ours. A little silver band with a tiny emerald because you once told me you liked “stones that look like they grew in the forest.” Took me three paychecks and selling two of my vintage vinyls to afford it. Worth it.

Haven’t popped the question yet. Waiting for the right moment. Maybe after a Hellfire session. Maybe after one of your long shifts, when you’re too tired to fight off the tears and I can tell you that I want to be the one to keep you warm, keep you safe, keep you mine—forever.

You’re my endgame. You’re the only plan I’ve ever had that makes any kind of sense.

So yeah, we’ve got an apartment that creaks when you walk too fast and a fridge that hums like it’s possessed. Our shower pressure sucks and the neighbors smoke so much it seeps through the vents. But it’s ours. It’s where you sing while brushing your teeth, where I write campaign notes on pizza boxes, where we love each other stupid and loud and real.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because I already got the best damn thing this world ever threw at me.

You.