Did he choose that font and presentation, or just go with the default when he opened a Word doc? I thought maybe he might have bought some nice thick, creamy paper, increased the font size, framed it, laminated it, just put more effort into the final product. Now I had a loose piece of paper to deal with, and I wasn’t sure if I should fold it up or keep it crease-free and put it in a manila folder or something. I had a home laminator, but I didn’t want to commit to lamination.

In a fit of mistaken need, I shared the poem with Mum, Nanna and Lauren. Mum said, ‘Before anyone says anything, let’s remember that we like Tristan.’ Lauren screamed with laughter, and committed it to memory almost instantly. Nanna asked to read it on the page, and spent a long time staring at it. ‘Do not marry this boy,’ she said to me. ‘If you do, do not let him read this at the wedding, because he’ll want to.’ I was then in the awkward position of defending this poem that I didn’t even like, but I felt obliged to not let Tristan become an object of derision among my family.

Tristan made me anxious when we were alone, because I was worried about him saying I love you and then me having to say it back. I felt deficient as a girlfriend, maybe as a person, that I didn’t love him. Because Tristan was a sweetheart, perfect for me in every way, so who was I to not love him. Did I think I could do better than him? Certainly not. But I didn’t feel it. Whatever it is. The spark. Chemistry. Love, the beginnings of love.

The whole thing was complicated because while I was afraid that he liked me too much, I was also deathly afraid that he didn’t like me enough. I didn’t want him to love me but I didn’t want him to not love me, because that would be worse. It was kind of a lose–lose situation.

When I posted a picture of the peonies he bought me for our three-month anniversary on social media, it was my mostliked post all year. When I put up pictures we took in one of those little photobooths, our faces squished together, being as cute as possible, people posted love hearts in the comments. It felt so good to not only feel like I was adored, but to have others witness it. In my head, secretly, I was still escaping the incident with Jesse. Look everyone, look at my life, my enviable life. Look at how much Tristan loves me, even though he has never actually said that and the thought gives me anxiety sweats and nausea late at night, and I’m terrified I am not capable of either giving or receiving love.

And then, Tristan caught me off guard.