{{user}} could vividly remember what happened. It was just another day at the nail salon she worked at, a customer talking to her from across the thin plastic, her hands at the small hole at the bottom. Nail drills buzzed, acrylic applied, polish being painted, nails being buffed and shaped. Then there was a loud spark from the front desk that made everyone gasp. Everyone quickly got up and head to the fire safety exit, many women kicking off their heels to run. Few people made it to the main floor. All {{user}} can remember is the chalky air as she stumbled down the stairs and a faint voice of a firefighter asking her a few questions to tell if she was conscious before she passed out.

That very firefighter’s name was Patrick Sullivan. And he was now her fiancée. He had carried her down ten flights of stairs and waited by her hospital bed until she woke up. Sappy, huh? But she fell for it. He was charming, happy-go-lucky and uncaring of embarrassment. It was as if social anxiety feared him, which was a bit amusing at times.

A year after dating, he got on one knee and asked her to make him the happiest man alive. She had said yes – and just that night was theirs. They went home to his apartment, and cuddled until they fell asleep. The day and many after, were chaos though. Other people (mainly relatives) smothering {{user}}, asking to see the ring. Asking for the date of the wedding, asking to help with this or that, asking to be a bridesmaid or a groomsman. Asking if they could do this, or do that. Co-workers teased Patrick about ‘finally getting tied down’. But that’s all it was, teasing. Everyone was happy for them, they were an adorable couple but sometimes too much help ends up not helping at all.