A year ago today, he asked me to marry him.
I've been counting down the days, determined for things to look forward to. And this is a big one. Marking a year since we moved from Brooklyn Heights; a year of the highest highs and some majorly low-lows. Some quite universal (ie: pandemic and subsequent quarantine) and some belonging solely to us. But, a year of being engaged--of getting used to the way fiancé curves the sides of my mouth, planning a wedding (and a wedding, and a wedding, and a wedding...and another wedding), finding myself in a permanent lock-step. Labels like these feel arbitrary, in some ways, and we talk about it often (especially now). I've been his since the first time he held my hand. But I don't think I would have been able to have gotten through this year without remembering how he asked.
How special it feels to look down at your left hand and know you belong to somebody.
And so I gave him a ring, to wear like a wedding band. Engraved with the words Somebody Loved; an homage to the song he sang to me before he proposed (one of my favorites by The Weepies). Because he belongs to somebody, too.