Some love stories begin with candlelit dinners and sweeping gestures. Ours began with spilled coffee, clumsy apologies, and sarcastic banter that somehow turned into something unforgettable.
I met Jack a year ago in the least glamorous way possible. My iced latte slipped from my hand and drenched the paperwork of a stranger at the next table. Horrified, I stammered out apologies and reached for napkins. To my surprise, he laughed it off. “Guess this is fate telling me to take a break,” he said with a grin.
That moment of embarrassment turned into hours of conversation. Jack was warm, quick-witted, and refreshingly genuine. He told me he worked in logistics, I told him about my marketing job, and before long, we were inseparable.
Jack’s apartment was far from glamorous. The couch was held together with duct tape, the heater rattled endlessly, and the “kitchen” consisted of a single hot plate. But none of that mattered. He cooked ramen with an egg like it was a five-star meal, poured cheap wine into mismatched glasses, and made me laugh until my cheeks hurt. I didn’t need luxury. I was in it for him.
A year later, on our anniversary, Jack told me he had a surprise. I expected something small—a home-cooked meal or a quirky gift. Instead, I opened my door to see him leaning against a sleek luxury car, holding roses.
Continue reading on next page…