Our first date was bowling. Not fun bowling—Olympic-level, jaw-clenched, scorecard-studying bowling. We smiled politely while quietly plotting each other’s downfall. When he threw a strike, I threw two. When I guttered, he pretended not to notice, which somehow made it worse. We laughed, talked trash, and took the game far too seriously for two people who had just started hanging out. So naturally, we went bowling again. The second date confirmed two things: 1. We were evenly matched. 2. Neither of us was ready to let our guard down—or admit we liked the other. There were no dramatic sparks, no rom-com kiss in the parking lot. Just a respectful nod, a “this was fun,” and a mutual unspoken agreement that maybe this was… not it. Life carried on. We drifted in and out of each other’s orbit—occasional texts, random check-ins, the kind of “hey, you alive?” messages that pop up every so often like a familiar song on shuffle. Always easy. Always comfortable. Always something, though neither of us named it. Then 2020 happened. The world slowed, everything got quieter, and suddenly I noticed him differently. The competitive bowler from years ago was still there—but so was this steady, grounding presence. Somewhere between isolation and introspection, it clicked: Oh. It’s him. It’s always kind of been him. In 2021, we stopped circling and finally chose each other. And once we did, we never really separated again. Now we’re inseparable in the best way—best friends who laugh too hard, soulmates who know each other’s thoughts before they’re spoken, twin flames who still compete over everything (yes, bowling included). We challenge each other, balance each other, and somehow make life feel lighter just by being in the same room. Turns out, love didn’t strike on the first roll. It waited patiently, kept score quietly, and showed up right when we were ready to win together. Here we are - 11 years later - creating wedding websites and sharing our love story with all of our closest people!