We became friends quickly. He would send me messages on Facebook to see how I was coping with Australia, with my job, with meeting new people. He introduced me to his friends, took me sightseeing, and showed me cafes that he knew I would frequent. He was kind without being fake, and his willingness to have no other agenda was a much needed breath of fresh air.
But somewhere in the middle of this genuine friendship, something else started to grow. We were both scared, coming from our own particular places of heartbreak and hurt, neither one of us willing to make the first move. And so I, subtle as always, invited him to come with me to a performance of Romeo & Juliet at the Sydney Opera House. He obliged and all of my friends said he liked me and I said I wouldn't get my hopes up, I didn't even know if I liked him, I wasn't sure what was happening.
We both knew it was the start of something.
And not even a month later, he dropped me home from our first date, telling me he wasn't seeing anyone else. Telling me he would rather I didn't see anyone else. And he gave me the sweetest first kiss.
Of course I would fall in love with Stephen. Stephen, who is a foot taller than I, who loves more quietly and delicately than I, who is far more patient and understanding than I. In all our differences, I have learned to be complemented and to complement, my friends telling me earnestly that I seem more myself than ever, that it's less like I've changed and more like I've settled into the person I was meant to be.
He proposed just after arriving in America, with a journal filled with letters and my favorite flowers and my best friend waiting to celebrate with us.
It's the start of the best something yet.
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