His last name started with B, mine with A. So for four years, fate—or our teachers—kept making us seatmates.

And for four years, he never missed a chance to annoy me. He’d steal my pens, poke my side, whisper jokes in serious moments. I swore I hated him.

But then he’d lend me notes when I was sick. Bring me snacks when I forgot mine. Hold my hand during a fire drill without thinking.

Senior year came, and for the first time, we weren’t seatmates.

I hated it.

I missed him—more than I wanted to admit. And when he finally asked me out, grinning like he always did, I realized I never really hated him at all.

Years later, he still steals my pens, still whispers jokes at the worst times, and still holds my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And today, as I take my seat beside him—this time at the altar—I know there’s no place I’d rather be.