That was who Daniel had always been.
Calm.
Patient.
Dependable.
Everyone loved him.
I probably loved him long before I understood what love was.
The truth was that Daniel and I were very different.
He entered every room as though he belonged there. I entered quietly, hoping no one would notice me.
Whenever teachers asked for volunteers, I lowered my eyes. When someone complimented me, I assumed they were only being polite.
My father loved me deeply, but he had always been overprotective. Whenever I hesitated, he stepped in and made the choice for me. Whenever I doubted myself, he rushed to provide an answer.
People called it care.
But over time, it taught me that everyone else trusted their judgment more than they trusted mine.
Eventually, I became an expert at almost trying.
I almost joined the student council.
I almost auditioned for a school play.
I almost applied to the college I secretly dreamed of attending.
Daniel was the only person who seemed to notice.
“You always stop right before something good can happen,” he told me during our sophomore year.
I laughed and shook my head.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He gave me the same patient look he always used when he believed he understood me better than I understood myself.
“One day, you’ll realize that I do.”
By high school, our families and friends were convinced we would eventually become a couple.
They were right.
One Friday night after football practice, Daniel walked me home beneath the streetlights. When we reached my front porch, he stopped so suddenly that I nearly walked into him.
“I’ve been pretending we’re only friends,” he admitted.
My heart began racing.
“So have I.”
He kissed me before I had enough time to become afraid and change my mind.
From that evening forward, we were no longer just the children who had grown up next door to each other.
We were in love.
College only brought us closer.
We studied in the same diner where the waitresses knew our orders. We encouraged each other through difficult classes and celebrated every small victory.
On graduation day, Daniel took me back to that diner.
Outside the entrance, he lowered himself onto one knee.
“I can’t imagine the next part of my life without you,” he began. “Will you—”
“Yes.”
He stared up at me, surprised.
“Could you at least let me finish the question?”
