In 2015, I met my now fiancee. It wasn’t the same plummet into love that left me forgetting who I was and what I cared about; the plummet that turned me into a human catalogue of another person’s perfection. We met in Brooklyn and talked about our favorite Bjork and The National albums, and got cupcakes for dessert. At the cupcake shop, two of my classmates from graduate school happened to stop in, and one of them gave me a wink like, this date seems to be going excellently. Then my past walked away, onto Vanderbilt Avenue and away from the me that I was now. Our date continued until the shop was ready to close, and they gave us a free cupcake to take home. We shared it; the marshmallow frosting coated my teeth. Afterwards, after Christine got onto the subway, she texted me to ask when our next date could be. It threw me; I was so used to being the adorer. It never occurred to me that a relationship should have each person on equal footing. That our raindrops should fall at around the same pace. “Tomorrow?” I suggested, with hope.