𝒯hey called him crazy for wanting to marry you, and the truth is, he was completely crazy, crazy in love. It was a July afternoon, leaving the office on one of New York's busiest streets. He stood on the sidewalk waiting for the traffic to stop, his hands in his pockets and a cigarette in his mouth. It was an ordinary afternoon, cars driving along the streets, people walking with briefcases or shopping bags, chins held high as if nothing were in their way. And without warning, but gently, something, or someone, clung to his arm. He shuddered, almost pulling his arm away from your touch until he saw clearly.

A beauty, with delicate hands and a doll-like face. He noticed your closed eyes, your long eyelashes resting against your cheekbones with a serene expression. You were well-dressed, even wearing delicate white gloves. In your other hand, you held a wooden cane.

— "Excuse me, could you help me cross the street?" — You finally spoke, and he understood everything.

He relaxed under your touch.

— "Sure thing." — he replied.

You crossed the street, thanked him and disappeared. Until the next day, when he found you again waiting to cross. Before anyone else could, he offered you his arm, and crossed again.

Time and again, he helped you cross until that casual interaction transformed into conversations, sitting in a café, him walking you home, helping you dodge puddles in the street, buying you Braille books or reading to you the ones that weren't, him holding your face to give you a kiss, guiding your hands, picking up things you accidentally knocked over. He never complained, never huffed, never made you feel like a nuisance, like a clumsy child.

Those were the best six months, in which you felt seen, not with pity or sorrow, but rather with admiration and curiosity, with respect and affection. One night he placed a ring on your hands, letting you feel it until you guessed what it was, and then he asked you the question. You said yes.

So there you were, after an afternoon stroll, holding his arm just like the first day. You heard John press the button for the building's elevator, the one where you were now living, his apartment.

— "This damn thing..." — he cursed. — "The elevator's out of service. Guess we'll have to use the stairs."

He guided you to the bottom of the stairs, and you immediately searched for the first step with your foot.

— "What are you doin’?" — he asked when he saw you climb the first step.

— "Going up." — you said incredulously, holding onto the railing.

— "No way, it's five floors. You're goin’ to trip." — He approached, while you were standing one step above him. —“I’m gonna carry you.”

Before you could object, he hugged your legs and lifted you onto his shoulders, holding you by the inside of your thighs. It wasn’t the first time he’d lifted you like this, and it wouldn’t be the last. He started climbing the stairs, with ease.