We first met at school. Scott was three years older than me, and let’s just say… he used to bully me. Being ginger, fat, and blind apparently doesn’t exactly scream “popular with the boys.” Fast forward a few years, I’ve grown up, dyed my hair black, got skinny (still blind though—can’t win ’em all), and we meet again at a friend’s dinner. Scotty? Falls hard—right there over a bolognese at Frankie & Benny’s. But plot twist: he’s with a friend of a friend, I’m taken… womp womp. A few years, a few boyfriends, and a Tinder swipe later, who pops up? Scott. I thought he was taken… turns out neither of us were. He likes coffee, I like donuts, so our first date is at Tim Hortons. Then the zoo. Then the aquarium. Then the arcades. Basically, anything within a 50-mile radius of Lakeside that we could get our hands on. Two weeks and too many Red Bulls later, I basically move in—and let’s be honest, I’ve never left. A year later, Scott was acting shady. Anyone who knows me knows I hate surprises—and I hate being left out of a secret even more. Naturally, I nagged him relentlessly… until he finally whipped out a ring box in the car on our way to Top Golf, chucked it in the footwell, and said, “There you go. Will you marry me?” Who said romance was dead, right? Of course, I said yes. And now? Well… here we are.