Hey, my name’s Noah. I’m 25 and I live in Columbus, Ohio. Life here’s pretty straightforward. I’ve got a steady job as an office coordinator at a midsized logistics firm. It’s nothing glamorous, just handling schedules, emails, and the occasional coffee run for meetings.

I share a small apartment with a roommate who’s always out, so most evenings it’s just me scrolling through my phone or catching a game on TV. I’m not the most outgoing guy around. I like hanging with a close circle of friends, playing pickup soccer on weekends, or binge watching old sci-fi shows. I’ve dated here and there, but nothing’s ever stuck. Maybe I’m just picky, or maybe I haven’t met someone who really gets me.

Either way, I’m content enough not to force it. My best friend, Lucas, and I go way back. We met in college, bonded over late night study sessions and bad pizza. He’s the kind of guy who can light up a room without trying. Always cracking jokes and pulling people in.

When he got engaged to his high school sweetheart, Sarah, I was thrilled for him. The wedding was set in his hometown, Bel Fontaine, a quiet little spot about 2 hours northwest of Columbus. It’s one of those small Ohio towns with rolling fields, old barns, and folks who wave at strangers. “Lucas called me a couple weeks before the big day.” Noah, you got to come, he said over the phone. I’m counting on you to be one of the groomsmen.

It’s going to be simple, just family and close friends, but I need my brother there. I laughed it off, but agreed right away. No way I’d miss it. The morning of the wedding, I dug out my gray suit from the back of the closet, the one I only wear for interviews or funerals. Paired it with a white shirt and a navy tie, nothing flashy.

I hopped in my beat up Honda Civic, tossed a change of clothes in the back, and hit the road. The drive was peaceful with the highway cutting through farmland under a clear blue sky. I cranked up some classic rock on the radio, feeling that mix of excitement and nerves you get at weddings.

The ceremony was at a small church on the edge of town, the kind with white clapboard siding and a steeple that looked like it had been there since the 1800s. Sarah walked down the aisle in a simple lace dress, and Lucas looked like he might pass out from nerves, but they nailed their vows. It was heartfelt, no over-the-top drama, just two people promising forever in front of about 50 guests.

After the Idos, everyone headed to the backyard reception at Lucas’s parents house. They’d set up long picnic tables under string lights with checkered tablecloths, homemade barbecue, and a cooler full of beer and soda. A local band played soft country tunes and kids ran around chasing fireflies as the sun dipped low.

I mingled as best I could, chatting with Lucas’s cousins about the Buckeye’s latest game and helping myself to pulled pork sliders. The vibe was warm, genuine, people laughing, sharing stories, toasting the couple. It felt good to be part of something like that, away from the city’s hustle.

As the evening wore on, the band switched to slower songs and couples started hitting the makeshift dance floor on the grass. I hung back by the drink table, nursing a beer and watching. Dancing’s never been my thing. I’d rather observe than jump in. That’s when I noticed her. Over in the corner of the yard, near a cluster of folding chairs, sat a woman about my age, maybe a bit older.

She had long brown hair that fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and she wore a light blue dress that caught the fading light. She was beautiful in a quiet way, sharp features, a gentle smile when someone walked by. But what stood out was the wooden crutch propped against her chair.

Her left leg ended just below the knee, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching the dancers with a distant look. No one seemed to approach her much. A few people glanced over with sympathetic smiles, but then they’d turn away, whispering something to their partners. I couldn’t help but wonder what her story was.

If I were in her shoes or shoe, how would I feel at a place like this? Isolated, maybe invisible in a crowd that’s all about celebration and normaly. I sipped my beer, debating whether to say hi when Lucas appeared at my side, clapping me on the back. Hey man, having fun? He asked, his tie loosened and a grin on his face. Yeah, it’s perfect. Congrats again, I replied. He followed my gaze to the woman. That’s Emma Harper, my cousin.

She’s 29, lives here in town. Tough year for her. Lost her leg in a car accident about 18 months ago. Hit by a drunk driver while she was out jogging. It’s been rough. This is the first big gathering she’s come to since. Everyone’s happy she’s here, but you know how it is. No one’s sure how to act. I nodded, feeling a pang in my chest.

She looks like she could use some company. Lucas raised an eyebrow, then smiled. You know, if someone asked her to dance, I bet it had make her night. But folks are too awkward about it. The words hung there, and before I could overthink it, something clicked. Maybe it was the beer or the wedding magic in the air.

But I set my drink down and straightened my tie. You think she’d say yes? Lucas shrugged. Only one way to find out. Go for it, Noah. I took a deep breath and walked over, my heart pounding a little harder than I’d admit. As I approached, she looked up, her blue eyes meeting mine with a mix of curiosity and caution. “Hi,” I said, offering a friendly smile.

“I’m Noah, Lucas’s friend from Columbus.” She tilted her head slightly. “Emma, I think I saw you in some of the rehearsal photos. Nice to meet you.” We chatted for a minute about the wedding, how great Sarah looked, the amazing ribs. She had a soft voice, warm but guarded. Then, as the band started a slow ballad, I gathered my nerve.

Emma, I said, extending my hand. Would you like to dance with me? I can be your support if you need it. Her eyes widened, and for a second, she glanced down at her crutch, then back at me. A flush crept up her cheeks, but after a pause, she nodded. I’d love to. I helped her stand, steadying her as she set the crutch aside.

She leaned into me, her hand on my shoulder, and we stepped onto the grass, ready for whatever came next. The grass felt soft under my shoes as we moved toward the center of the makeshift dance floor. Emma’s hand was warm in mine, her grip tentative but trusting. She leaned into me, her right foot planting firmly while she balanced on her toes with the left side.

I could feel the slight tremble in her arm, the way her breath caught as she adjusted her weight. “If it’s too much, we can stop anytime,” I whispered. But she shook her head, her eyes meeting mine with a determination that made my chest tighten.

The band eased into a slow melody, something classic, like Elvis’s Can’t Help Falling in Love. I wrapped my arm gently around her waist, pulling her close enough to steady her without crowding. We started with small steps, more of a sway than a full dance. I led carefully, matching her rhythm, letting the music guide us.

The string lights overhead cast a soft glow on her face, highlighting the faint freckles across her nose. At first, her movements were hesitant. She glanced down at her feet, biting her lip as if expecting to falter. But as the chorus swelled, she relaxed, her body sinking with mine. I spun her halfway around, slow and controlled, and she let out a quiet laugh, a sound so genuine it cut through the night air around us. The chatter faded.

I caught glimpses of people pausing mid-con conversation, their eyes on us. A few looked surprised, eyebrows raised, while others smiled softly like they’d just witnessed something rare. Lucas and Sarah stood at the edge holding hands, their faces lit up with emotion. Sarah wiping a tear from her cheek. I didn’t focus on them, though.

All that mattered was Emma. The way her shoulders loosened, how she tilted her head back slightly, closing her eyes for a moment as if savoring the freedom. The song built and we moved in a small circle, her leaning on me just enough to keep balance. It wasn’t perfect. No fancy twirls or dips, but it felt real, like we were defying something unspoken.

As the music faded, applause broke out, scattered at first, then building into a warm wave. Emma’s cheeks flushed pink, but her smile was radiant, brighter than anything I’d seen that night. She looked up at me, her eyes shining. Noah, I haven’t felt this happy in so long,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the claps.

“Thank you for making me feel like a normal girl again, even if just for a song.” I squeezed her hand gently. “Everyone deserves to dance, Emma, and to be happy. You more than most, from what I can tell.” We made our way back to her chair, and I handed her the crutch, making sure she was settled before sitting down beside her. The energy around us shifted.

People went back to their conversations, but a few came over to say how beautiful that was, patting her on the shoulder or giving me a nod. Emma waved them off modestly, but I could see the spark in her eyes like a weight had lifted. We talked as the night wound down. She opened up a bit more, her voice steady, but laced with vulnerability.

“The accident happened about 18 months ago,” she said, staring at her hands. “I was out for a run on a back road, something I did every morning to clear my head. A truck came out of nowhere, swerved right into me. The driver was drunk, barely even registered what happened. I woke up in the hospital and well, my left leg was gone below the knee. Doctor said I was lucky to be alive, but it didn’t feel like luck.

I felt broken, like I’d never be whole again. I listened, not interrupting, just nodding to let her know I was there. “That sounds incredibly tough,” I said when she paused. “I can’t imagine going through that.” She shrugged, a sad smile tugging at her lips. The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was how people changed around me. Friends drifted away because they didn’t know what to say.

Dates, forget it. Guys would look at me like I was fragile or worse, like they pied me. I stopped going out, stopped trying. Tonight was the first time in forever I’ve been around this many people without wanting to hide. Her words hit me hard. I thought about my own insecurities.

Growing up, I’d had a stutter that made school hell. Kids teased me relentlessly, calling me Noah until I learned to keep quiet. It wasn’t the same as what she’d been through, but I understood that feeling of being marked as different. I get it in a small way, I shared. As a kid, I stuttered bad. Couldn’t get through a sentence without tripping over my words. People laughed, avoided me in group projects.

It made me hide, too. But eventually, I realized hiding doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the world smaller. Emma looked at me. Really looked like she was seeing past the surface. That’s why you asked me to dance because you know what it’s like. Partly, I admitted, but mostly because you looked like someone who deserved a good moment tonight.

We kept talking about lighter things now, like our favorite movies. She loved old romances like The Notebook. I was more into sci-fi like Inception, the best barbecue spots in Ohio, even silly childhood dreams. She wanted to be an artist once. I dreamed of traveling the world. The conversation flowed easily.

No awkward silences. As the reception wrapped up, guests hugging goodbye and the band packing away, I walked her to her car, a small SUV with hand controls for driving. “Thanks again, Noah,” she said, leaning on her crutch. You made this night special. Anytime, I replied. Drive safe. I watched her pull away, the tail lights fading into the dark.

Driving back to Columbus that night, the highway stretching empty ahead, I replayed the evening in my mind. Emma’s smile, her laugh during the dance, it stuck with me. For the first time in a while, I felt like I’d done something that mattered, something beyond the everyday routine. Little did I know the dance was just the beginning. The drive back to Columbus felt longer than it should have.

Even though the roads were empty under the starry sky, my mind kept drifting to Emma. Her smile during the dance, the way she’d whispered those words about feeling happy. It was just one night, one moment, but it lingered like a good song you can’t shake.

By the time I got home, crashing onto my couch with the suit still half on, I figured that was it. a nice memory from a friend’s wedding. Life would go back to normal. Work emails, soccer practices, quiet weekends. Three days later, my phone buzzed with a text from Lucas. Hey man, thanks again for being there. Emma couldn’t stop talking about the dance. Here’s her number if you want to say hi. She seemed like she could use a friend.

Attached was her contact. I stared at it for a minute, thumb hovering over the screen. What would I even say? But something pulled me in. The same impulse that had made me ask her to dance. I typed out a simple message. Hey Emma, it’s Noah from the wedding. Hope you’re doing well. If you’re ever up for grabbing coffee, let me know.

Her reply came faster than I expected. Hi Noah, I’d love that. How about this weekend? There’s a little cafe in Bell Fontaine that’s quiet. We met that Saturday at a spot called the Brew House, tucked on the main street with mismatched chairs and the smell of fresh roasted beans. Emma was already there when I arrived, sitting at a corner table with a mug in hand.

She wore a simple sweater and jeans, her hair tied back, and she waved me over with a genuine smile. No crutch in sight this time. She’d mentioned in a text that she was getting used to a prosthetic, though it still tired her out. We ordered black coffee for me, a latte for her, and eased into conversation like we’d known each other longer than a few days.

The wedding was beautiful, she started. But honestly, that dance, it was the highlight for me. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Me neither, I admitted. It felt good to see you light up like that. She stirred her drink, her expression softening. After the accident, I shut down, avoided crowds, mirrors, everything.

People stare, or worse, they pretend not to. But you didn’t. You just saw me. I nodded, sharing a bit more about myself to keep it balanced. I felt invisible before, too. In school with the stutter, I’d hide in the back of class.

It took years to get over it, but I learned that sometimes you just need one person to pull you out. We talked for hours about her job as a graphic designer before the accident. She’d freelanced from home now, creating logos for local businesses, my boring office routines, our shared love for hiking, though she admitted she hadn’t been since losing her leg.

She opened up about the dark days, therapy sessions, phantom pains, the nights she’d cry herself to sleep, wondering if she’d ever feel normal again. I listened, not pitying, just being there. By the time we parted, the sun was dipping low, and I walked her to her car, helping steady her as she adjusted the prosthetic. From there, it became a routine.

I’d text her during the week. Funny memes, quick check-ins like, “How’s the day going?” and drive down on weekends. Our first real outing was a walk around the local lake, a flat path with benches every so often. Emma used her crutch that day, pacing herself, but she insisted on going the full loop.

“I need to push a little,” she said, determination in her voice. We stopped halfway for ice cream from a roadside stand. Mint chocolate for her, vanilla for me, and sat watching ducks skim the water. She laughed more freely now, teasing me about my city boy aversion to bugs. As weeks turned into a couple of months, our time together deepened.

We’d browse the used bookstore in town, where she’d pick out art books and I’d grab sci-fi novels. One afternoon, I convinced her to try a short trail nearby, not too steep, just enough to feel the fresh air. She leaned on me when the ground got uneven. Her hand slipping into mine naturally. This is the first time I’ve done something like this since, you know, she confessed. Feels freeing.

But not everything was smooth. In a small town like Belf Fontaine, word spreads fast. The first whispers came at the grocery store one Saturday. We were picking out ingredients for a simple pasta dinner. Her idea to cook at her place. As we turned down the aisle, an older woman from the wedding glanced our way, then leaned to her friend.

That’s Lucas’s cousin. Poor thing. And that young man must be pitying her. Healthy guy like him could do better. I heard it clear as day, my jaw tightening. Emma must have too, her shoulder stiffened, and she quickened her pace, crutch tapping faster. Outside in the parking lot, she let out a shaky breath.

You hear that stuff? Yeah, I said, loading the bags into her car. Ignore them. They’re wrong. She looked away, eyes misty. Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. What if I’m holding you back? I turned her gently to face me. You’re not. Being with you makes me better, stronger. She nodded, but the doubt lingered in her eyes. Incidents like that piled up. A stare too long at the cafe, a hushed comment at the park.

Once during a town fair, a group of kids pointed and giggled until their mom shushed them. Emma brushed it off, but I saw the toll it took. Still, she grew more confident with each outing. She started experimenting, wearing shorter skirts that showed her prosthetic, posting photos of our walks on social media with captions like rediscovering steps.

Friends from her old life reached out, encouraged by her posts. One evening, after a particularly good day at the lake, she hugged me goodbye a little longer. Thanks for not running from this,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied.

Emma decided to sign up for an art class at the community center, teaching kids how to draw, something she’d always loved, but set aside after the accident. I drove her to the first session, waiting outside like a proud friend. As I peaked through the window, seeing her hold a brush, smiling at the students, a wave of hope washed over me. She was blooming, but I couldn’t shake the worry.

What if the judgments got worse? What if they hurt her more than she let on? For now, though, she was stepping forward, and that was enough to keep me coming back. As the weeks turned into months, our connection deepened in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Emma’s art class became a regular thing, and I’d often drive down to pick her up afterward, listening as she animatedly described her students progress.

“Today, one kid drew a superhero with a prosthetic arm, just like mine,” she’d say, her eyes lighting up. It was inspiring to see her reclaim parts of herself, but the whispers and stares hadn’t vanished. If anything, they felt sharper now that we were spending more time together publicly.

People in Bella Fontaine started noticing us at the diner holding hands at the park and the small town Grapevine did its work. The real test came when I decided to introduce her to my close friends in Columbus. I’d been putting it off, not because I was ashamed, but because I knew how people could be. One weekend, I organized a casual barbecue at my apartment.

Burgers on the grill, beers in the cooler, the usual crew of five guys I’d known since college. Emma was nervous on the drive up, fidgeting with her necklace. “What if they think I’m, I don’t know, a burden?” she asked quietly. “They won’t,” I assured her, squeezing her hand. “They’re good people. Just be you. The afternoon started well.

My buddy Mark cracked jokes about my grilling skills and Emma laughed along, sharing stories about growing up in Belfontaine. She even helped set the table, moving confidently with her prosthetic. But as the beer flowed, the conversation shifted. When Emma stepped inside to grab more chips, one of the guys, Dave, leaned in. She’s great, man.

Really? But you sure about this long-term with the leg thing? It’s got to be tough. I felt my face heat up. What do you mean the leg thing? She’s amazing. That’s all that matters. Dave held up his hands. Hey, just looking out for you. Relationships are hard enough without complications. Emma must have overheard because when she came back, her smile was forced.

The rest of the evening was polite but strained, and on the drive home, she stared out the window. I heard what he said,” she admitted finally. “Maybe he’s right.” “What if I’m holding you back from someone?” “Easier.” “You’re not,” I said firmly, pulling over to the side of the road. “Those guys don’t get it yet, but they will.

And if they don’t, that’s on them.” She nodded, but the doubt lingered in her eyes. It stung, knowing my friend’s words had hurt her. A few days later, Mark texted me an apology. “Sorry if we came off wrong. She’s cool. Happy for you. It was a start, but it made me realize we couldn’t hide from the world forever. The bigger hurdle was my family.

My parents lived just outside Columbus in a suburb called Westerville. Dad a retired mechanic, mom a school nurse. They’d always been supportive but traditional in their views. I brought Emma over for Sunday dinner a month later, figuring it was time. Mom greeted her warmly, complimenting her dress, while Dad shook her hand with a firm nod.

Over pot roast and mashed potatoes, we chatted about safe topics. The weather, my job, Emma’s art class. She charmed them with stories about teaching kids, and for a while, it felt normal. But after dessert, Dad pulled me into the garage while mom showed Emma family photos. “Son, she’s a nice girl,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

“But have you thought this through? Marrying someone who’s not whole? It’ll be hard. Kids, travel, everyday stuff. I just want what’s best for you. His words hit like a punch. Dad, she’s whole to me. I shot back. The accident didn’t change who she is inside, and we’re not even talking marriage yet. Just give her a chance. He sighed. I’m not against her, just realistic. Life’s tough enough.

Back in the living room, Emma was laughing at an old photo of me as a kid, but I could tell she sensed the tension. On the way home, she asked, “What did your dad say?” I told her the truth and her face fell. See, even your family thinks I’m a liability. No, I insisted, stopping at a red light. They’re worried because they care about me. But they’ll come around when they see how happy you make me.

That night at her place, we sat on the couch with the TV on low. Emma leaned her head on my shoulder, her prosthetic leg propped on the ottoman. “I love spending time with you, Noah,” she said softly. But I don’t want to make your life harder. If this is too much. I turned to face her, cupping her cheek. It’s not, Emma.

From that first dance, I saw strength in you that most people never find. You’ve pushed me to be better, to face my own fears about fitting in. I don’t care about the challenges. I care about you. Her eyes searched mine, and in that moment, something shifted. She leaned in, and our lips met. soft at first, then deeper, like we’d both been holding back.

It wasn’t rushed or passionate in a movie way. It was honest, vulnerable. We pulled apart, foreheads touching. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “But I’m scared I’m not enough.” “You are,” I replied, kissing her again. “More than enough.” From there, our relationship evolved. We spent more nights together, cooking simple meals like spaghetti with garlic bread, watching sunsets from her porch, or just talking until late. Emma opened up about her therapy sessions the day she still struggled with body image.

I shared my own vulnerabilities, like how my stutter had made me avoid public speaking at work. We supported each other, no judgment. My friends came around, too. Dave invited us to a group hike, flat trails, nothing strenuous, and apologized in person. I was an idiot, he said. Seeing you two together, it’s real. Even my parents softened.

Mom called Emma one day to share a recipe, and Dad during our next visit asked about her prosthetic without awkwardness. If it needs fixing, bring it to the garage, he grumbled. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. Through it all, Emma grew stronger.

She started a blog about living with a disability, sharing tips and stories that inspired others. Comments poured in, people thanking her for making them feel seen. And me, I felt like I’d found my place, not just with her, but in standing up for what mattered. The judgments didn’t disappear overnight, but they lost their power. We were building something real, one step, one dance at a time.

Two years had passed since that barbecue in Columbus, and looking back, it felt like a lifetime compressed into quiet, steady moments. Emma and I had made the leap, literally and figuratively, by moving in together. Not in the city, though. We chose Belf Fontaine, renting a cozy two-bedroom house near the lake where we’d taken our first walks.

It was nothing fancy. Peeling paint on the porch, a kitchen with outdated cabinets, and a backyard just big enough for a small garden. But it was ours, a place we could shape without the noise of judgments echoing too loudly. I’d quit my office job after saving up, opening a small auto repair shop on the edge of town. It started slow.

Oil changes for locals, break jobs for farmers. But word spread, and soon I had steady work. Emma thrived, too. She turned her passion for art into a part-time gig, teaching drawing classes to kids at the community center, many of whom had disabilities themselves. She’d share her story openly now, holding up her prosthetic as a badge of resilience. This doesn’t define me, she’d tell them.

It’s just part of my adventure. Our days fell into a rhythm that felt right. Morning started with coffee on the porch, watching the mist rise off the lake. I’d head to the shop, grease under my nails by noon, while Emma prepped her lessons or sketched in her notebook.

Evenings were for us simple dinners like grilled chicken and salads or takeout from the diner when we were too tired. We adopted a scruffy golden retriever mix named Rusty from the shelter. He became our constant companion, bounding around the yard or curling up at Emma’s feet during her quiet moments. We’d plant flowers together, tulips and daisies mostly, turning the front yard into a colorful patch that neighbors complimented. It wasn’t perfect.

There were days when her phantom pains flared, or I’d come home exhausted from a tough repair, but we’d talk through it. No hiding, no pretending. The judgments hadn’t vanished entirely, but they’d faded into background noise. In a small town, people adjusted. The same folks who’d whispered at the grocery store now waved hello when we walked Rusty.

My friends from Columbus visited occasionally, and Dave even brought his girlfriend once, admitting over beers how wrong he’d been. You two make it look easy, he said. My parents came around, too. Mom sent care packages of baked goods, and dad helped me set up the shop’s tools one weekend. She’s got grit, he grumbled approvingly after watching Emma teach a class.

It wasn’t an overnight change, but seeing us together, happy and real, chipped away at their worries. One of the things we started that meant the most was the weekend dance classes at the community center. It began as Emma’s idea, a free session for anyone, no matter their ability.

We’d clear the floor, play soft music, and guide people through basic steps. Kids in wheelchairs, elderly folks with canes, even able-bodied locals joined in. Emma shown there, demonstrating moves with her prosthetic, laughing when she wobbled. I’d partner with whoever needed it, but always saved a dance for her. It became a highlight for the town, a space where differences didn’t divide, but connected.

This is what I needed after the accident, she’d say afterward, her cheeks flushed. A reminder that life keeps moving. The turning point that sealed it all came during the town’s summer festival last July. The main square was alive with booths selling cotton candy and handmade crafts.

A live band on stage under twinkling lights. Families picnicked on the grass, and as dusk fell, the music shifted to slower tunes. Emma and I wandered hand in hand, Rusty trotting beside us on his leash. She wore a sundress that fluttered in the breeze, her prosthetic barely noticeable anymore.

She’d mastered walking with it, even adding a custom design of swirling vines painted on the side. We stopped near the bandstand, watching couples sway. “Remember our first dance?” I asked, pulling her close. “How could I forget?” she replied, her eyes sparkling. I extended my hand just like at the wedding.

Care to recreate it? She hesitated for a split second, glancing at the crowd, but then nodded with that familiar determination. We stepped into the open space, her hand on my shoulder, mine at her waist. The band played a gentle waltz, and we moved together, slow, deliberate, her balancing against me as we turned. People noticed, some smiling, others joining in around us.

No stairs of pity this time, just warmth. As the song crested, Emma leaned in, her voice soft against my ear. “I haven’t been this happy ever,” she whispered. “Not since before everything changed.” I held her tighter, “And I’ve never been prouder to be your partner.” We danced until the song ended, applause rippling through the square.

Rusty barked excitedly, tugging at his leash, and we laughed, breathless. That night solidified what we’d built. Not just a relationship, but a life where we lifted each other up. Now, as I stand on our porch most evenings watching the sunset over the lake, I reflect on how far we’ve come.

Happiness isn’t about perfect bodies or flawless paths. It’s about courage, about seeing someone’s scars and loving them anyway. Emma’s become a beacon for so many. Her classes are full. Her blog inspires readers across the state. and me. She’s shown me that vulnerability isn’t weakness, it’s strength. We haven’t rushed into marriage.

We’re content building our world day by day with rusty at our feet and flowers blooming out front. One quiet night as we sat outside with mugs of tea, the house lights glowing warmly behind us, Emma turned to me. You know that dance at the wedding? It wasn’t just a moment, it was the start of us. I nodded, pulling her clothes. And look at us now.

We’re not perfect. Life still throws curveballs like bad days at the shop or flare-ups of her pain. But we’ve created something whole from the pieces. Standing there gazing at our home’s warm glow against the darkening sky, I knew we’d turned brokenness into belonging.

And every miracle, it seems begins with one brave step. Or in our case, one imperfect