My sweet Sona,
Sixteen years ago, today, we decided to give it a go. It was 2001. I was a freshman at the University of Tennessee at Martin, and you were a sophomore.
We’d met a few months earlier, when I had befriended your then girlfriend. (We won’t name names.) She had told me all about her “Indian princess,” who happened to be traveling with her mom for a semester. Turns out, your mother had torn you away from your life, hoping to take you away and straighten you up. I mean that, literally.
Lucky for me, that little endeavor failed pretty miserably.
I will never forget the first time we met. I was in my dorm room–McCord Hall–which, as I’m sure you remember, was completely decked out in all things Curious George. You walked in, wearing a purple tank top and a pink silk skirt. You seemed anxious and shy and completely overwhelmed by my obnoxious outwardness.
To say we didn’t hit it off is an understatement. I thought you were pretentious and uptight. You thought I was loud and aggressive. (We were both kind of right.)
Weeks passed. Then, one day, I was sitting with a group of friends in the cafeteria when I spotted you, sitting alone. You were eating an apple and reading some obscenely thick philosophical tome.
I decided to bother you, and that was probably the best decision I’ve ever made.
Sixteen years later, I’m still loud and aggressive, and you are still anxious and uptight. But somehow, that has worked for us.
I wouldn’t have wanted to grow up with anyone else, and now I don’t want to grow old with anyone else, either.
I love you, Sona.
Always, always, always.