I moved to Chicago for grad school and found myself, in all places, getting a job at Best Buy. Dorothy was running late on my first day, which felt like a cosmic joke because I'd already decided I was going to be cool while making new friends. Dorothy and I became friends at work, the kind where you grab lunch and laugh at customer complaints, except I was quietly developing feelings that went way deeper than coworker camaraderie. My best friend also worked there and had known her longer, so I kept my crush buried while watching her live her best college life—going out, having fun, doing all the things I was too nervous to do. For months I invented study sessions at Starbucks, pretending I needed help with homework when really I just wanted an excuse to be near her. Then one night at a party, I finally worked up the courage to confess everything. Except I didn't—I chickened out completely, spent the whole evening psyching myself up for nothing. But fate had other plans: we ended up in the same car heading home, and suddenly I was pouring my heart out in the backseat like I'd run out of time. Her response was immediate and brutal: "Are you shitting me?" She'd just gotten out of a relationship and wanted to stay single, to enjoy college without strings. So naturally, I decided to persist. I kept showing up, kept being there, until one day she realized that being with me didn't tie her down—it made her feel vibrant, infinite, joyful, at peace. Eleven years later, I still wake up knowing the sun will rise, and she'll be there.