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"She said yes," Max confirms, squeezing my hand across the table.

"Congratulazioni!" Tony disappears back inside, only to return moments later with a bottle of prosecco and plastic cups. "A toast to the beautiful couple! This time without spilling, eh?" He winks at Max, who blushes slightly at the reference.

As Tony pours the sparkling wine, I take in the absurdity and perfection of this moment—getting engaged in a parking lot behind an Italian ice shop, being congratulated by the owner who witnessed one of our first genuine connections, drinking prosecco from plastic cups while sitting on folding chairs.

None of it would make the carefully curated engagement announcements I once scrolled through on Instagram. None of it fits the aesthetic I spent years perfecting. And yet it's the most authentic, meaningful moment of my life.

"To us," Max raises his cup, eyes shining with emotion. "From fake to forever."

"From fake to forever," I echo, clinking my cup against his.

As we sip prosecco and finish our Italian ice, as Tony regales us with stories of other proposals at his humble shop over the decades, as the record player softly plays the song Max wrote about our journey, I'm struck by how far we've come from that first night at The Copper Key.

The woman who calculated every post for maximum engagement, who maintained separate public and private personas, who proposed a fake relationship to save her career—she could never have imagined finding something so genuine from the most artificial of beginnings.

Later, as we ride the subway home hand in hand, my grandmother's ring catching the fluorescent light, I rest my head on Max's shoulder and whisper, "Thank you for spilling Italian ice on your crotch two years ago."

His laughter rumbles beneath my ear, his arm tightening around me. "Just wait until you see what I have planned for the wedding. Hint: it involves both our artistic abilities and potentially some wildlife."

"If there are geese involved, the engagement is off," I warn, though we both know it's an empty threat.

"No geese," he promises solemnly. "Maybe just one small raccoon as ring bearer."

As we exit the subway near our apartment—our home, built from vinyl records and throw pillows and compromise and love—I'm filled with certainty that whatever comes next, however we choose to share our news with the world, the most important audience has already witnessed the moment: just us, together, exactly as we are.

No filters required.

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