It wasn’t a whirlwind romance. It was slower. Realer.

Jenna never needed grand gestures. She didn’t care for the noise, the spectacle, or the kind of love that showed off instead of settling in. What she did love was how quiet it was with you. The way you existed beside her, not above her. The way you noticed things — the creases in her smile, the silence in her eyes when she was overwhelmed, the way she always tugged at her sleeves when she was anxious.

It had been over five since that first night you kissed her — clumsy and electric in the hallway after a film premiere, your hand cupped at the side of her face like you weren’t sure if she’d vanish. She didn’t. She stayed. And over time, she became home.

You had the moment planned for weeks.

A hilltop you both found during a weekend getaway months ago — where the city lights felt miles away, and all that existed was wind, sun, and her voice beside you. You packed a blanket. Her favorite drink. Everything was perfect.

Almost.

You had rehearsed the words in your head a hundred times. “Will you marry me?” “Will you marry me?” “Will you marry me?”. Again, and again and again and again.

You knew the weight of what you were about to say. Your chest beat too fast. Your fingers trembled the way they always did when something mattered more than you could say.

And Jenna?

She sat beside you, knees pulled in, her cheek glowing in the last light of day. She looked peaceful. Like she already knew.

You stood up. She looked up, puzzled. You reached into your coat pocket, your heart pounding.

And then — the pit in your stomach.

The pocket was empty.

You froze.

No ring.

Not in your coat. Not in your backpack. Not anywhere.

It hit you like a punch: you left it.

At home.

On the counter.

Next to the coffee mug.

You stood there, blinking, hand halfway in your pocket, heart screaming.

Jenna tilted her head, starting to smile — then frowning.

“What’s wrong?”