The air is stale, but your perfect imperfection gives it life. The soda can of hungry red and impulsive yellow rolls in; the clunky letters on its surface call out to me, forcing my careful steps to you. Like the can says, there's only one way to go: All in. And then, I pick it up. 

 The words stumble out of my mouth—about the can, the one I assume you dropped. You laugh and joke about how soda isn't an "office drink". I'm an idiot. I scramble to make you understand that the can is vibrant—beautiful, like you, but I shrink with every word. I brace myself for rejection; instead, you express your pleasant surprise with a soda can as a pick-up line. You're already taking out your phone, asking for my number. 
 Oh. As I type the digits, you double-check that Keo is my name. I say yes; I already know yours—Mika. You move things along, commanding the conversation with your energy, asking what we're doing this weekend. My eyes dart around for an answer, landing on a flyer for the zoo—childish; something tells me you'd love it. 
 
 You exclaim you love it, though my body crawls with the zoo's sensory overload—uncanny heat, and unwelcome smells. You find beauty in each thing and won't rest until I see things your way. So, you stand up on the bench, cover my eyes from behind, and per your instructions, when you pull away, I blurt out the first thing I see, squinting at the blinding sun. 

 You tell me I'll go blind if I stare too long—my gaze veers back to the sea below. I ask if cliff jumping is safe, you say if it was "safe," it wouldn't be any fun. You whine about how I promised you—I can't let you down. So, I take off my glasses and step to the edge with you, hand in hand. We leap, and we fall. 
 The bubbles blur my vision—my chest tightens. You're laughing above the surface—I lose your hand. In the expanding waters of uncertainty, you stay afloat, but I feel like I'm drowning. My head spins with emotions I didn't know were there, and suddenly, I'm dizzy.

 The whole world is spinning—as I crash into the porch railing, the only steady thing is you. You're doubled over now, between heaving breaths, adding to the joke of how drunk I am—we are. I don't regret a thing—I feel free now, how you must feel all the time. You say we should do this more often, that it's "good for us," I latch onto that—us. We are one. 

 You say we're not the same person—I don't have to follow you around everywhere. I don't get it—I thought—isn't that what boyfriends are supposed to do? You ask me again, steadily, with emphasis on the ‘you' in the "Do you want to come with me to the New Year's party?" I don't get what you're trying to get me to say. So, I say yes, while you're slapping a cheap party hat onto my head. Then, you ask me if I'm happy. 

 I'm the happiest I've ever been—isn't it obvious? Your question hit like a spark to dynamite—I've been thinking of it ever since. I love everything about you; you're my whole world, if you're happy, I'm happy, and that's all that matters. 
 So, I kneel, fiddling with the box that feels like a brick in my pocket, and present the dainty ring. You're still laughing, the moon shining on you, as if the night knows. When you turn, your laughter stops, your eyes sparkling. 
 Now I wish the ring was better—to fully encapsulate you. Nonetheless, the words stumble out of my mouth in a pathetic jumble. Mid-sniffle and smiling, you agree that yes, this is stupid, and yes, we are too young. But when I say your name—Mika—and ask the question, your answer is immediate anyway. 

 "Yes," is what you say, and the ceremony concludes with a tender kiss. My hand is sweaty and clammy as we walk down the aisle, yours is soothingly warm, but we are one. You pull me along, and I stumble after you as the church doors open to that bright, white light. 

 I leap through the puff of white dust, choking on the flour you've thrown at me. I chase you around—sprinkles thrown, dough on the ceiling, and frosting tossed. We meet—or crash into each other in a giggling mess. But you're not looking at the mess—you're looking at me. And before I can comment, you chuckle and tell me I have love on my face. 

 My head jerks to you, not sure if I heard you right. You repeat I have "that look" on my face, with your sad, brown eyes locked on me. I don't mean to keep hurting you—I'm not good at this husband thing. I flash you a smile and ask if my face is better now, and you say yes, with a soft kiss to my cheek before you turn over in bed. I wish you didn't have to pretend. 
 But I was pretending too, thinking about us making cookies like we were in some movie. A wishful dream, but it could become reality if I just get out of my head—fix it, whatever this is. But you give me no sign, no sparkling eyes or soft giggle. I pull you close anyway, comforted by thoughts that things will get better, with time. 

 Five years was too long. In another five, I imagine I may not know you as you pack. In another three, I imagine we may not speak, as you label boxes. Maybe in one, we may not get along, as you set your ring on the counter. And you leave me with a parting demand, "Prove me wrong." 
  And I sit frozen, on the couch. I want to prove you wrong—prove that I can move on my own, act on my own, love on my own. Agency may not come as easily to me, but I refuse to stay stuck in place any longer. I storm over to the counter, my shaky hand stretched over the ring, prepared to take my own leap of faith. And then, I pick it up.  
 
 The soda can that's stopped just beside your ballet flats, now a product of my decision. "Prove me wrong," you had said, and now, I smile, as there's only one way to go: All in. All in with love, with you, and my decisions, because wherever I go "All in," there will be love. I can't stand to let you go, not this time. 
 So, I turn and ask you if you really want to do this. Your skeptical eyes meet mine, and you ask me if I'm asking for me, or for the can in my hands. In an instant—I know the answer. I chuck the can across the room; it lands in the trashcan with a thunk. 
 I reassure you—it's me, truly, I don't want to get divorced. You let out a breath of relief, saying you don't either. I too, let out a shaky breath; we both joke about our almost-divorce. You say it's "too formal for us," and I agree. There's a pause before you ask me what's next, and in response, I take your hand, bolting out of the law office. 

 We race through the city streets of pouring rain, laughing like dumb kids. Not one pulling after the other but running side by side into chaos of life. We don't know where we're going, but that's alright, because this time, we're all in—both of us. So, when we stumble across a vending machine, those same, twinkling cans staring back at us in our soaked reflections, I turn, and ask if you want one—that we can share. And you turn to me, your smile as bright as ever, and answer as certain as can be, "Yes."