Her favorite book was One Hundred Years of Solitude, which was also Ben's favorite book (a fact that irrationally annoyed me). She smoked-they smoked together for a long time until he quit. They lived together for three years and dated for nearly six. Their relationship was intense-high highs and miserable lows. They had only broken up the winter before. I still hadn't heard exactly why. So of course the word rebound haunted me. The name Nicole filled me with crazy jealousy.

"Why is this relationship different?" I asked Ben, and then worried that I was presuming a bit much. "Or is it… different?"

I will never forget the way Ben looked at me, his pale eyes wide and almost glassy. He bit his bottom lip, one of his sexier habits, before he said, "That's actually not a difficult question at all. I just love you more. That's it. And I'm not saying that because she's in the past and you're in the present. I just do. In absolute terms. I mean, I loved her. I did. But I love you more. And it's really not even close."

It was the best thing anyone had ever said to me, and it was the best for one reason: I felt exactly the same way. The person who loved me like this was the person I loved back-which can feel like an absolute miracle. It is an absolute miracle.

So it came as no surprise when Ben proposed a few weeks later. And then, seven months later, on the anniversary of our first date, we eloped, tying the knot on an idyllic white crescent beach in St. John. It was not a popular move with our families, but we wanted the day to be only about us. Right after we exchanged our vows, I remember looking out across the sea and thinking that it was just the two of us, our lifetime together stretching endlessly ahead. Nothing would ever change, except the addition of wrinkles and gray hair and sweet, satisfying memories.