We’d kissed, and, what was so strange, was that, now I knew I had him for sure, I finally believed him. Finally fully trusted him. All the edginess and worry vanished the second he got on the ground and got out a ring. I’d been picked. Finally. I stopped stalking his exes online. I relaxed. Laughed more. Ate more. Drank more. Ben kept saying, “I should propose more often, I love this side of you,” almost as a joke. And it infuriated me because I would’ve been like this all along, if only he’d made it clear he was picking me earlier.

In fact, after I said yes... After the initial flurry of telling people, and intense lovemaking, and wedding planning, and ring-showing, I’d had a mild panic for a week or two about whether or not I actually picked Ben back. I watched him sleep and sometimes thought, “Oh my God, is this it? Him? Really? Are you sure it’s him?” Our whole relationship had been such a roller coaster of waiting to be chosen, of being the person onstage auditioning, that I’d not really considered if I wanted the part now that I was being offered it. But, after a week or two of mental processing, I fell in love with Ben in a different way. A less puppy dog way. A considered way. I was finally myself in love, rather than the darkest parts of myself wanting to be loved... And now, when he looks at me and holds my hand, it’s the happiest I’ve ever been. Well—would be the happiest if, on the day I finally got the love of my life, I hadn’t lost my other one.

It’s spring again. The blossom peaked last week and is starting to fall. Trodden into mush underfoot on the paths. I have a coffee in my hand—trying to enjoy the small things I can enjoy now there isn’t a baby inside me anymore. My foot slips in the magnolia mulch and I let out a small squeal and almost drop my cup. My hand goes to my stomach protectively before I realize there’s nothing there to protect anymore, and I take myself to a bench to collect myself, staring down at the rotting blossom.