Today, Ryan gets up at 6:30. I hear his alarm, but I have no intention of waking. I roll over and let it fade into the back of my consciousness. I barely feel his lips brush my forehead, but it makes me smile. He sits there for a moment, then sets off down the hall to get ready for work. My face hasn’t seen a lick of makeup in 48 hours, my nose is rubbed raw from a steady barrage of tissues – a futile attempt at combating seasonal allergies, and I’m wearing the only thing that fits comfortably these days – Ryan’s oversized Special Olympics Game Day t-shirt. Even by a low standard, nothing about me registers as attractive. What’s more, I’m sure my constant nose-blowing and barking seal cough interrupted his sleep several times throughout the night. Still, the first thing he does after shutting off his alarm is cross to my side of the bed to kiss my forehead. I think about that kind of love. No pressure to impress or perform. Completely undeserved. It’s easy to stand up next to your best friend without a hair out of place wearing the only couture gown you’ll ever own as he vows to love you forever. That day will always feel magical. But somehow this Wednesday morning feels almost as magical. And if it’s possible, I feel even more loved.