“I have something for you,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A gift?
On top of marrying me? Bold move.”
“I thought you might like this.”
“What is this?”
“Open it,” he urged.
My handwriting.
My heart skipped. “Wait… is this my old dream journal?”
“You wrote it in my history class. Remember?
That assignment where you had to imagine your future?”
“I completely forgot about this!” I laughed, though my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“You kept it?”
“Not on purpose,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I switched schools, I found it in a box of old papers.
I wanted to throw it out, but… I couldn’t. It was too good.”
“Good?” I flipped through the pages, reading fragments of teenage dreams.
Starting a business.
Traveling to Paris. Making a difference. “This is just the ramblings of a high schooler.”
I stared at him, my throat tightening.
“You really think I can do all this?”
His hand covered mine.
“I don’t think. I know.
And I’ll be here, every step of the way.”
He smirked. “Good.
That’s my job.”
Over the next few weeks, I began to work my dream plan.
I quit the desk job I’d never loved and lived rent-free in my head for years: a bookstore café. “Do you think people will actually come here?” I asked him one night as we painted the walls of the shop. He leaned on the ladder, smirking.
“You’re kidding, right?
A bookstore with coffee? You’ll have people lining up just to smell the place.”
He wasn’t wrong.
By the time we opened, it wasn’t just a business—it was a part of the community.
