April 23, 2026

Droplets of rain splatter across my glasses as I crunch my pedals to bike uphill on the pothole-filled Roosevelt to get to where I need to be. The timing has to be just right, so I try to ignore the passing wind of cars rushing by on my left, a number of them impatiently weaving around me. I don’t quite remember the street names I have to turn on, but I have a vague direction of where I’m going. Somewhere north. Near that one Best Buy, I think. To the jeweler’s shop. I know it just hailed not even an hour earlier, but this is super, super important.

Insert a DJ scratch noise… Freeze frame. Yep, that’s me. You might be wondering how I got here.

The long (and short) of it is that a little over two years ago, I fell hopelessly head-over-heels for the hottest—no joke—most emotionally intelligent, bashfully playful, silliest of the silly in the whole entire, big wide world (re: my Instagram page is a barrage of photos of her, and my friends joke that I essentially run a fan page for her). You’d think I worship at her feet everywhere she goes. Which, if we are being completely honest, is not too far from the truth.

Let’s call her Chloe. Because her name is Chloe, of course.

Just a month and a half ago, I joked that if she didn’t put a ring on me soon, every person around me wouldn’t stop hopelessly flirting with me. Put a ring on me, and well, they’ll all drop like dead crows mid-air. A personal side note—I actually can’t recall the last time someone shamelessly flirted with me. I’ve also been told that I have a very roundabout way of asking for what I want. I still don’t see how that’s true.

So naturally, following the path of the relationship escalator (but, like, the gay one), we booked a flight to San Francisco (classic) to go purchase some rings. Just to soothe Chloe’s anxiety about me being swept away by someone else. In all seriousness, she is way too secure, and I’m a thousand percent sure that’s never crossed her mind. That’s what happens when you choose a social worker as a life partner.

Two weeks after our trip, when I still haven’t received a tracking code from our sweet ringmaker, Emi, I turn to Chloe, bereft of any patience left in my little bones, and ask her if we should email Emi. With a swift glance, Chloe replies firmly that we shouldn’t do that. And then the lights come on in my head. That little rascal, Chloe. I love her, but I just know—deep, deep in my gut—that she coyly asked Emi to never email me a tracking code so she could end up surprising me! I end up asking Chloe a slew of questions, to which her face reddens in a super-cute-but-now-I-know-you’re-lying-way, and I know I’ve got her cornered.

Here’s a small slice about my dynamic with Chloe: when it comes to gift-giving, we’re probably the worst two to pair together. Like, god awful. I’m the type to bombard her with questions about what the present will be, what I’ll be using it for, if it’s something I’ve mentioned in the past. And like a classic, honest-to-God-I’ve-always-been-raised-to-tell-the-truth person, she fumbles, and her secrets come spilling out in answers that I lasso out of her. And that’s why Christmases aren’t super fun for her when I’m around (sorry, Chloe).

So the next month and a half becomes a series of really, really bad fumbles of us trying to surprise each other with a proposal. Chloe lets me see the ring (it wasn’t anything romantic—she took the rings out of the USPS packaging—but I still cried enough to fill all seven oceans), and I hesitantly agree to let her play out her surprise proposal. Which, in hindsight, I should not have done. Because she totally proposal-edges me by recreating our second date—a lovely walk around Green Lake followed by a rom-com-like moment on the bench where she leans in toward me—and ultimately not proposing. So. Evil.

After we get home from our “date”—which, by the way, would have been such a fantastic way to propose (ahem, Chloe)—I decidedly fold my arms and tell her we should just do a mutual ring exchange. I mean, we’re not even a straight couple, so maybe we shouldn’t have to follow the heteronormative tradition of one person kneeling on the ground asking the other for forever. To which she agrees. And then we find out our rings don’t quite fit. Dun, dun, dun!

Insert DJ scratch noise once again, and I’m arriving back at the jewelry shop, where we both got our rings resized. Fun fact—when we first entered the shop, Chloe turned to me to ask if they’re friendly toward gay couples (re: the photos plastering the windows were all straight couples). Fun fact—they are. Thanks, Green Lake Jewelry Works, for your alliance.

Earlier that day, I received a text that our resized rings were ready for pickup, a day ahead of schedule. Cunningly and with a bunch of forethought (big brain energy come through), I’d only jotted my number and email down, so Chloe wouldn’t receive a notification to pick up our rings. And if you don’t see where this is going, I’ll spoil it for you. I wanted to surprise her with the rings. Because if there’s one thing I’m really good at with Chloe, it’s surprising her.

So, I open the door to the jewelry shop. By the way, it was raining, in case you didn’t pick up on that earlier. Body heat radiates off my face, instantly fogging my glasses the exact moment I amble up to the person working the front desk. I am a person swallowed whole by black rainproof attire and gawky yellow cycling shoes (that I have been told look like elf shoes). I awkwardly tell the assistant that I’m here to pick up my engagement rings, following up with a casual mention of losing my ID weeks earlier, so I can’t necessarily prove my identity. But I shoot her a look anyway. It is a guilty, pleading look that screams: please-if-you-just-look-at-how-much-I-biked-to-get-here-you’d-just-give-me-the-ring. To which she does, hallelujah.

I hurry my sweet, sweat-laced, rain-soaked butt home, all the while with the two rings jostling around in my bike bag. I don’t think there will ever be another moment in my life when I bike around with that much monetary value in my bag. And when I get home, I hold up both of the rings to the ceiling light, kiss them like I’m Mr. Krabs holding the secret formula to a Krabby Patty, and stuff them away.

With perfect timing, Chloe gets home from work, and I somehow manage to persuade her that, on this rainy Wednesday, we should go out to a fancy restaurant. To celebrate us and love and all of the other cheesy things, and I know we usually don’t go out mid-week, but can we please because I’m dying for pizza and no, I’m not about to propose!

Alright, here’s the last spoiler. The proposal doesn’t go as planned.

Fresh from the shower, getting ready for dinner, with a little more than just my briefs on, Chloe looks up from the bed and holds up a small, green velvet pouch, and asks what it is. And holy mother of pearl, the blood immediately drains from my face. Because I, idiotically, hid the rings and not the pouch the jewelry shop provided us with. And there is a beat of dead silence before she starts bellowing out in laughter. She’s caught on. And after another beat, I join her, with tears forming at the corners of my eyes. Maybe from defeat. Or just how damn funny it all is. Or just because sometimes, life doesn’t always go as planned. No matter how much heart you put into it. And sometimes, you just have to laugh.

So there I was, with my hair damp and my feet still wet. I’m looking at Chloe on the bed, surrounded by the clumps of clothes we haven’t put away on top of our unmade comforter, holding up that damn green pouch. She’s looking at me, waiting for a reply.

And I sit next to her, take her hands, and I ask her to marry me. Clumsily, a bit more damp than I’d like, but with heart.

It’s a silly and sort-of capitalistic thing to play into; a short proclamation of sorts where you each awkwardly spell out why the other person is your person while trying to not trip over words and fit a hopefully-not-too-loose ring on their finger, but we do it anyway. Because why not?

And surprise! The rings fit!