Two years. Is it really two years? Not two hundred years? Not two minutes? Because it feels like both.
We met nine years ago. We were best friends eight years ago. I finally gave you a chance four years ago.
We’ve only been married two?
You’re the man of my dreams. You have the chivalry of Fitzwilliam Darcy, without the stiff politeness. You have the passion of Edward Rochester, without the arrogance. You have the devotion of Noah Calhoun, and the perseverance of Orpheus. You are all the lovers in all the books, and none of them, because you are better than any of them.
I am, truly, the luckiest.