You came from Berlin.

I was in Philly.

And somehow, across 4,000 miles and a mountain of paperwork, we ended up on the same floor.

I remember that day.

We built a home.

I love date nights where you rest your chin on your hands and look at me like that.

I love the mornings. The cold walks with coffee. The way this city looks when we're in it together.

I love that you put on an Eagles jersey you didn't grow up with and scream at a TV in a Philly bar — just because I do.

You don't have to get it. You just show up.

I love that you were waiting at the finish line, biting my medal like it was yours.

It was.

I love the purple hallways and the Euros and the beach days and every single ordinary Tuesday in between.

And then there were cats.

They're not pets. They're our first family.

You're my lock screen.

My emergency contact.

My favorite face in every room.