“Yes,” she said. Then, softer: “Yes.” But the story doesn’t end there.

But when they said their vows—short, honest, unpoetic—Rachel realized something.

They didn’t run.

Because three days before the wedding, Rachel’s mother called. “Are you sure, honey? You don’t have to do this.”

“Rachel,” he said, kneeling on one knee, the box open in his palm. “I know I’m not great with words. But I want to spend my life failing at them with you. Will you marry me?”

It was do they choose each other. Every day. Even the boring ones. Even the hard ones.

No search needed.

She hadn’t opened it.