It’s a cold night in January.

You’re lying on the couch, lazily scrolling through Bumble profiles when you see: “Iron man triathlete, Australian, student of the human experience.”

Definite swipe right.

It’s a match.

You meet outside his apartment on a cold morning. Your first date is a run together (your idea). There’s a dusting of snow on the pavement. Later, he will admit it seemed bold that you assumed you could keep up with him. You will point out that this is misogynistic (although it was in fact harder than you made it look to keep up with his long Aussie legs).

Back to our story.

You’re wearing bright purple tights and a purple half-zip (who doesn’t wear a suit of purple on a first date?). You immediately notice his spandex shorts have bright pink stripes down the sides (in Boston, in January). This feels like a good sign.

Also, when you meet for the first time he hugs you and squeezes for a few seconds, as if you already know each other. And he’s got an accent.

The good signs are adding up.

After your third dinner date, you ask, “So, what exactly are you looking for?”

He says something like, “Good question. Um, what are you looking for?” Or something to that effect, since you are the one who asked first and wound up answering first.

You say, “I am looking for a fun and meaningful relationship.”

Little do you know this man will reinvent your definition of “fun” and “meaningful” 1000 times over.

But at the time, he says, “I’m not looking for a distance relationship.”

Your heart sinks to your feet.

But even with the distance question hanging in the air (you will be moving in five months to start residency), you two are drawn to each other. You like him so much, you find yourself baking things like vegan oatmeal chia bars, banana bread, and granola with homemade macadamia nut milk.

Also, you drop the news: “So, I’m going to China.”

He says, “Wow. When?”
You say, “This Friday.” It is Monday.

He says, “For how long.”

You say, “A month.”

When you leave, you feel unsure of how things will transpire in your absence, but confident that he is worth the risk of getting hurt in the exploration of this connection.

It turns out  that instead of losing him, the physical distance brings you closer together. The Australian is by your side every step of the way in Kunming. You share with him the daily faux pas and roadblocks as you traverse the world of global health in rural Yunnan. He listens. He is interested. You send Wechats back and forth and a long email chain develops, opening up each other’s past and present.

On Valentine’s Day, you send him recommendations with your favorite way to celebrate: buy yourself the darkest dark chocolate you can find, listen to Sexual Healing (all versions are good, from Marvin Gaye to Shaggy), and read the NYT article Raising a Princess Single-handedly.

He does as you suggest. He also goes on a date with another woman (Ouch), which he admits to you at the same time that he states he has realized he doesn’t want to date anyone else but you (Well, okay).

You start dropping heart emojis and at some point terms of endearment crop up in the WeChats, starting with “mate” and evolving to”sweetie” and “lovey.” Is this getting serious?

Then you’re back home. He meets you at the train station and he’s baked you the vegan oat bars with a layer of chocolate on top.  

It’s a blink before you’re starting residency in Philadelphia and he’s still in Cambridge. He comes down for weekends, but you both feel it’s not enough.

In November, he bravely departs from Boston and moves in with you, leaving friends and shifting his career to be with you.

Suddenly, he’s so intertwined in your life that you can’t imaging this place (or any place, really) without him. He is home. (Plus, how did you ever cook your own dinners and do the laundry?)

There will be travel. You will meet his family and he will meet yours and you will feel enveloped in love. Both of you will experience the ups and downs of challenging, but meaningful work, and you will be there for each other.

He will hug you and hold it when you come home, when you’re happy or when you’re crying (It turns out, there are a lot of tears in residency. It’s surprising more residents aren’t dehydrated).

He is the best kind of breathtaking.

And in June on the afternoon after his triathlon in Canada, he will read you a poem in response to the one you wrote him just three months after you met (bold move on your part).

He asks.

The answer is obvious.

“Yes, I will marry you.”