Your first dance deserves your story, not someone else's song.

We met sheltering from a sudden London downpour in a tiny secondhand bookshop off Cecil Court. I put down a worn copy of Persuasion because I couldn't afford it that week; he bought it behind my back and chased me down the street with it, soaking wet. Five years later he proposed in the same shop, with the same book: the ring was taped inside the back cover, next to a note that said 'you are my second chance at everything'. Every Sunday since, we dance in the kitchen while the kettle boils. We want our first dance to feel like that kitchen, just us, even with two hundred people watching.

We met on a volunteer trail crew in the Colorado Rockies: she out-dug everyone including me, then fixed my ancient pickup truck with a hair tie and a swiss army knife. Our first kiss was under the Perseid meteor shower at eleven thousand feet; we counted nineteen falling stars and stopped counting. Two summers later I proposed at the summit campfire with cocoa in tin mugs, because that's what we had on our first night. She said yes before I finished the sentence. We want a song that sounds like pine and woodsmoke and her laugh.

Ne-am cunoscut în anul doi la Medicină, în biblioteca din Brașov: eu învățam pentru anatomie, el mi-a lăsat un bilețel în cartea de osteologie cu «ne vedem la bibliotecă?». De atunci, șapte ani, «ne vedem la bibliotecă» e parola noastră pentru orice întâlnire. M-a cerut în zori pe Tâmpa, deasupra orașului nostru, cu inelul bunicii lui, bunica Maria, care m-a plăcut din prima zi și care ne-a învățat să dansăm vals în bucătărie. Vrem ca la dansul mirilor toată sala să simtă ce simțim noi când orașul se aprinde sub noi.