After all, I was staying in a tiny apartment with two roommates and no privacy, but Tyler lived alone in a sweet place his parents had bought for him when he finished grad school.

One night, we were watching the sunset over the city when everything changed.

“You know something?” Tyler said, pulling me closer. “You basically live here already. Why not just make it official?”

My heart skipped a beat. I’d been waiting for a sign that our relationship was moving forward, that Tyler saw a future with me the way I saw one with him.

“Are you serious?” I asked. His eyes looked sincere in the fading light.

“Never been more serious about anything,” he replied, planting a kiss on my forehead.

So I agreed, believing this was the beginning of our shared life together.

The next weekend was a flurry of activity.

My best friend Mia helped move boxes while my brother and Tyler carried furniture up three flights of stairs.

Tyler and I bought a new sofa together.

I positioned my plants near the windows and arranged framed photos on the walls.

“This place has never looked better,” Tyler commented as I cooked dinner that first night in our shared home. “It’s like it was missing something before, and that something was you.”

I beamed, stirring the pasta sauce. “I’m glad you think so.”

“This just feels right. Like a team,” he added, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. “It’s our home, now.”

For weeks, everything was perfect.

I cleaned and cooked more than my fair share, but I didn’t mind. I learned Tyler’s routines and adjusted mine.

I noticed he liked his towels folded a certain way, so I folded them that way.

I made his favorite meals and kept track of his workout schedule.

I was all in, and I thought he was too… until six weeks after I moved in. That morning, I opened the fridge to get orange juice and found an envelope taped to the carton.