For the man who was supposed to set me up with someone else – but ended up being my forever instead.
They say every great love story begins with eye contact. Ours began with a setup. Which, in retrospect, feels like the universe’s way of saying, “Let’s see what happens if we mix rakija with fate.”
Act I: The Setup That Wasn’t
Nine years ago, I crashed a random college party at a campus I didn’t even attend – the universal sign of someone who’s either emotionally brave or directionally lost. (Spoiler: I was both.)
I was newly single, mildly cynical, and wearing the kind of eyeliner that says “I’m thriving, thanks for asking.”
Then there was him. Eight years older, calm in that dangerous, quiet way men get when they’ve outgrown performance but not confidence. He was supposed to set me up with his best friend.
Five minutes in, he changed his mind.
Somewhere between the bad music and the worse lighting, I kissed him.
And the next morning, I woke up to a phone full of messages from a guy I barely remembered (thanks, rum and coke), and yet somehow, I already knew. It was him.
That was it. The first drop.
Within a month, I’d met his whole family.
Within three, I almost left – because he thought it would be hilarious to prank me by putting a dandelion in my mouth. (Reader, I stayed. Because if you can forgive a man for feeding you weeds, you’ve already found the one worth planting roots with.)
And within six, I’d practically moved into his apartment.
Act II: Tomorrowland, and the Gospel According to the Bass Drop
We were never the candlelight-and-chardonnay type. We were more “beer before sunset, EDM until sunrise” kind of people.
He introduced me to Tomorrowland – a religion with no gods, only DJs, and enough glitter to end a small ecosystem. We made it our second home.
Every July, we go back (okay, I stayed home once – and I won’t ever let him forget it).
Through jobs, cats, diapers, deadlines, and the occasional existential crisis.
Because the rule is simple: We don’t miss Tomorrowland.
Not now. Not ever.
Our friends think we’re insane. We think we’re faithful.
Because there’s something holy about standing in a field of thousands, hands raised, hearts synced, and looking at each other thinking – This is still us.
We’ve danced in the rain, under fireworks, and through years that tested us. Every time, we found our rhythm again. It’s not just a festival anymore. It’s our vow renewal. In bass, sweat, and poor shoe choices.
Act III: Marriage, Minus the Ring (Still)
Exactly five years after that college party, we got married.
Yes, I proposed – because if you want something done, you do it yourself.
He said yes, because he’s not an idiot.
We didn’t make it Instagram-official. It wasn’t perfect. It was better – honest, without telling a soul (sorry mom), and fully ours. And even though he still hasn’t bought me a ring, I mention it just enough to make sure he never forgets.
They say compatibility is about shared values. Ours is about shared calendars, inside jokes, and the ability to communicate entire paragraphs through mind reading.
We built a life full of rhythm and ridiculousness.
Got our first cat 10 months into our relationship, and like every delusional couple who says “just one,” we now have three tiny dictators who run the house we technically pay for.
Act IV: The Baby, the Fire, and the Reset Button
At some point, we changed our mind about kids.
We wanted one – not because life felt incomplete, but because we felt so whole we wanted to see what our love would look like walking around with its own personality.
In 2022, she arrived – our daughter. Our hurricane in footie pajamas. She broke us open in the best way possible. She wrecked our sleep and rebuilt our souls. Made us softer. Sharper. Stronger. Exhausted.
When she turned one, we moved – out of our apartment into a house that smells like coffee, chaos, and us. A home that laughs louder than it creaks.
Then, last year, my parents’ home burned down.
We watched everything familiar turn to ash, and when the smoke cleared, so did our priorities.
We stopped chasing what burns. Started holding tighter to what stays.
We got healthy. Intentional. Started exercising, stopped drinking. We became happier that we ever were. We turned out to be the kind of couple who drinks protein shakes but still eats fries. Balanced, in our own delusional way.
We became more present, more alive, more grateful – even when it was hard.
Especially when it was hard.
Act V: The Dance Goes On
Nine years in, this is us.
Still teasing, still touching, still saying sorry mid-argument because one of us (usually him) can’t stay mad long enough to land a dramatic exit.
We drink coffee every morning before our daughter wakes up.
I still nag him about the ring. And the dandelion.
We still go to Tomorrowland – because we promised we’d never stop dancing.
Our love grew, but it never calmed down.
It’s still loud, stubborn, and covered in glitter that refuses to vacuum out of the carpet of our lives.
And when I watch him with our daughter – kneeling to put on her shoes or brushing her teeth with more patience than God himself – I see every version of him:
The man from that party, the one who made me laugh through grief, the partner who stayed, the father who learned love all over again.
And I realize:
I didn’t just choose him once.
I keep choosing him. Every day, every year, every song.
Because he’s my best friend, my rhythm, my soft place to land.
Because we built a life from laughter and loss and a shared refusal to give up.
Because sometimes the universe tries to set you up with one person, and you end up finding the one you were meant to dance with instead.
And so, until the last beat drops –
Until our daughter rolls her eyes at our dancing,
Until the cats retire from their reign of terror,
Until the music fades and the lights go out –
I’ll still be here.
Choosing him.
Dancing.
Laughing.
Loving.
Because love like ours doesn’t fade.
It just finds new ways to keep the beat.
Erika Matic writes about love, motherhood, and the beautiful rebellion of building a life that still dances.
She believes the greatest love stories aren’t the perfect ones – they’re the ones that keep saying yes, beat after beat, until the very end.
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