At the age of twenty-one, I believed I had finally reached a moment that would define the next chapter of my life. I had been dating Emily for nearly three years, and our relationship had grown from the youthful infatuation of high school into something I thought was mature, enduring, and sincere. I had spent countless evenings imagining how I would ask her to marry me—what I would say, how I would position myself, how to make it feel intimate, personal, and memorable. Money had always been tight for me, working part-time jobs while attending college, but I had scrimped, saved, and sacrificed for months to buy the best ring I could afford. It wasn’t the largest, most ostentatious ring in the world, but to me, it was a symbol of everything I had invested emotionally and financially, everything I was willing to give to commit to someone I loved. I remember meticulously polishing it, wrapping it in a box, and practicing the words I planned to say in front of the bathroom mirror at home. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted her to feel my heart in that moment, to understand the depth of my devotion, even if the ring itself was modest.