On May 20, I graduated from a small, private college in Pennsylvania, which I’d chosen because it felt similar to my small, private high school in New Jersey. Nine days later, I’d start my first real job, at a school, like my parents. The job was in Nashville, a place I’d liked when I happened to pass through for a night on the way to a spring break destination.

I landed in Nashville and headed to a motel that was $22/night. I scribbled something in a journal about starting my adult life to ease my nerves.

I’d eventually walk into the doors of a high school with colorful college banners and glass windows, up the stairs to a cold classroom where a full staff of teachers sat for orientation. I headed right to the desk with the “Mr. Paige” nametag.

It’s Friday now – one week of orientation is under my belt. I drive home and hear from a friend that we’re invited out with several of the other teachers by a Ms. Pabon. I scan her profile and see a well-traveled, dark-haired woman. “We work with her?”

Several weeks pass. I get my legs under me in the classroom a bit. I slowly become more and more aware of Ms. Pabon the Spanish teacher.

She’s tall. She’s older. She sits four desks to my left. We build a bit of rapport, have a similar sense of humor, teach the same grade of students, and find ourselves in the teachers’ room at similarly odd hours – Monday at 5:15 AM, Wednesday at 9:10 PM, Saturday at 9 AM. We start writing each other notes – “thanks for letting me borrow your lamp”, “good luck with your class today”, and eventually, “what are your plans this weekend?”

I follow her around Nashville, enamored by her independence and confidence and laughter and familiarity with a city that clearly fits her like a glove. We romance between dive bars with red lights and ice cream shops with long lines and chicken restaurants where she actually recommends the egg rolls. We do well to not catch eyes while walking in student-filled hallways between classes.

All of this feels easy and low-stakes until a “getaway” weekend in Chattanooga (at another $22/night motel) and a Thanksgiving break away from each other make it a bit more real.

We return to Nashville on a scary Sunday, and for the first time, while sitting on the bed in her room with a tall cactus and some framed art next to it, decide to choose each other.

Across almost eight years together, we’ve seen five cities, three apartments, seven new jobs, dozens of therapy sessions, two cats, what feels like a million incredible friends, a few hospital visits, hundreds of disagreements about what to eat, and, fortunately, zero $22 motels.

When I picture the next many stages of our life, we’re choosing each other every day. Not because it’s predetermined or convenient but because we trust it’s safe to grow in each other’s orbit and discover new things to be enamored with that are better than eggrolls at a chicken restaurant, or something along those lines.