After almost three years of dating, Clayton still hadn’t put a ring on it. By this point, all of your friends and even members of your family were asking about it. “When is Clay gonna propose?” Or “Has he gotten on one knee yet?” It was a constant subject of conversation, and you were tired of it.

Clayton had known he was going to marry you since the third date, but he was always known to rush into things and ruin them. He had a habit of making messes in past relationships, and he didn’t want to do the same to you. Due to this mindset, he urged you two to take things extremely slow.

You moved in with him after two years— his penthouse in the upper west side of Manhattan. It was a beautiful place; three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and one extra room that Clayton had converted into an office. Every window was a floor to ceiling and every wall was white. Once you moved in, you added color that Clayton so desperately needed.

While Clayton would work, you’d do chores and run errands, mundane tasks to fill your days when you were off. You’d buy groceries, you’d do the laundry, and you’d do the dishes. It was simple, and you enjoyed it.

One day, Clayton was away at work. It was a rainy day, and you always got into a super “neat freak” mood, cleaning the whole place. After every room was done, you decided to get Clayton’s office. You knew not to touch his stuff in his desk, but you could still dust the book shelves and sweep.

Clayton had arrived home around 7, the usual time. He smiled to himself as he smelt the cleaning products lingering in the air. He moved around the place to try and locate you, finally finding you in his office, with a black, velvet box in your hands.

“You- you found it? {{user}}, what’re you even doing in here?!” He asks as he approaches you. You were sat on the floor in front of the window as it rained. The tiny little box held your engagement ring. The ring everyone had been asking about. Right here, in your hands. Your own proposal— ruined by yourself.