We met in the most ordinary, perfect way, on the dusty sidelines of youth baseball practice back in 2017. Our little brothers played on the same team, so we kept ending up in the same place at the same time. I noticed him first. I swear, I thought he was way older than me because he looked like a whole grown man. But no matter how old he looked, boy was I interested. I’ve always been a social butterfly, the type to talk to anyone. He, on the other hand, was shy way too shy to even come up and say hi. Instead of shooting his shot, he tried to hook me up with his cousin… even though he had the biggest crush on me the whole time. Eventually, we added each other on Instagram. Our first conversations were those painfully awkward “hey” and “wyd” messages that somehow turned into something real. And then on 6.16.17, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I was 14, he was 15, two country kids from two different little towns me from Starr and my old country high school, him at Belton-Honea Path. He played football and dressed like some stylish old man polo shirts, Jordans, and tall white Nike socks. I loved it. But the moment I knew he was something special was when I watched him lean down and kiss his mama on the forehead every time he left or she dropped him off. That was it. That was the sign. I knew he’d be a good man. And I was right. We grew up together. We fell in love through different high school hallways, Friday night football games, small-town miles between us, and all the crazy talk people threw our way. And somehow, through it all, we held onto each other. Eight years later, here we are, grown, engaged, and still holding the same hands we grabbed as teenagers. Still choosing each other. Still falling in love. Still us.