We were born in two entirely different countries, speaking two entirely different languages. In 2007, Marika moved from Poland to Brockton, Massachusetts with her mother, Kasia. She learned a new language, adapted to a new culture, and built an impressive academic career—basically completing a heroic origin story. Meanwhile, I was… also alive. Like all great modern romances, ours began on an app. After we both swiped right, we met at the pinnacle of New England luxury dining: Dunkin’ Donuts. I showed up in a suit and tie, fresh from hosting an open house for the real estate company I worked for at the time, hoping the outfit would distract from the fact that my bank account contained approximately seven dollars. I offered to pay for the coffee. My card was declined. Declined declined. Marika, ignoring what was clearly a massive red flag wrapped in confidence, paid for both of our coffees. Somehow she saw “potential” instead of “financial liability.” For our second date, Marika met my dad, Ken, because nothing says “take it slow” like immediate parental involvement. For our third date, I attended Marika’s high school band concert, and afterward we shared our first kiss—at which point Marika officially committed to a lifetime of questionable decisions. She was now officially stuck with me. Soon after, Marika joined my family for Christmas at my grandmother’s house in Connecticut, which is legally binding in some cultures; bold move for anyone who still has time to escape. I went on to attend countless tennis matches, concerts, and Marika’s high school graduation, cheering loudly while having absolutely no idea what was happening. Then Marika went off to college in Amherst, two hours away. She still drove home almost every weekend, which was incredibly sweet and absolutely not because I refused to move. Occasionally, I would visit her and stay too long—long enough to break university rules and, on one unforgettable trip, long enough for my car to get impounded. Somehow, she still answered my calls. During one summer break, we took Marika’s sisters to visit animal shelters “just to look.” One shelter later, we met an adorable puppy, and one week after that, we brought home Blake. With a dog depending on us, I realized it was time to grow up and get serious—and Marika, once again, trusted me to do so. I proposed to Marika on Thanksgiving Day in 2019 at Awosting Falls near my aunt’s house in upstate New York. She said yes. And in that moment, all the jokes faded away, because what mattered most was this: through every awkward first date, every long drive, every broken rule, every unexpected detour, Marika has been my constant. She believed in me long before I fully believed in myself. Six years, a move to Cleveland, two college graduations, one impounded car, and countless Dunkin’ coffees later, we are finally getting married. And while our story starts with a declined credit card, it continues because of patience, laughter, loyalty, and a love that has grown stronger with every step of the journey. And here we are—ready for whatever comes next, together. And somehow, she still hasn’t asked for her coffee money back.