I could say it was when we met on Bradford Beach the summer before our Junior year of college. Erin’s playful splashes encouraged me to scoop her into my arms where our eyes met for the first time in the cool waters of Lake Michigan. I could say it was all those mornings when somehow Erin ran into me as I sat with a coffee before my shift painting buildings on campus. Me, with clothes covered in paint, and Erin, dressed in her best workout outfit, sitting on a rickety old bench in the earliest of morning light. I could say it was when Erin stayed over to study with her friends so late that I would have to walk her home at night. Acquiring flowers from ornate planters scattered throughout the campus on our way. She only lived two blocks away but I swear we made those walks last hours. If I said those things, I wouldn’t be wrong but it’s not the entire tale either. Our little love story started with two kids falling head over heels for each other. It then grew into a lifelong passion after we experienced each other’s wonderful idiosyncrasies and chose to let each other into our weird little worlds. It was learning how to love each other. Learning when and in what form to give and receive love. We learned to speak each other's languages. Our little love story is nuanced and, at times, is a lot of work. Not work through the context of a laborious, administrative concept. But work through the lens of how artists or sculptors describe their work. It took many philosophical queries, self-discoveries, and serendipitous blunders to truly understand the life we wanted to create. If it wasn’t clear enough, I fell hopelessly in love with the spunky, mountain-loving, intelligent, inspiring, compassionate woman who jumped into my arms. Our journey is just starting. I am profoundly lucky to be able to build on our little love story until one day when we’re tired and wrinkly, I can sit down and write our grand, joyous, mesmerizing love story. Erin Wells, I love you always and forever.