As written by ChatGPT’s version of David Sedaris
If you’ve ever lived in a college dorm, you know that certain unspoken agreements govern daily life. For instance, you agree not to cook fish in the communal kitchen, and in return, your roommate agrees not to blast heavy metal at 3 a.m. Cade and Maggie met under these sorts of conditions at Columbia College Chicago. Both were graphic design majors, both living in the same dorm, navigating the delicate balance of college existence. They were friendly, but not friends. Friendly in the way you say, “Hey,” and hold the elevator for someone, but you wouldn’t necessarily invite them to your birthday party. That kind of friendly.
They graduated, went their separate ways, and both ended up living in Chicago’s Ravenswood area. A charming coincidence, but still, they remained unaware of each other’s presence. It wasn’t that they were avoiding one another—there was just no reason to reconnect. You know how it is.
Cade eventually moved to North Carolina, where he likely became intimately familiar with BBQ and the word “y’all.” Maggie, on the other hand, went on a world tour of sorts—first to the UK, then to Singapore. Somewhere along the way, she learned the importance of an umbrella and that in Singapore, chewing gum is more scandalous than jaywalking. Time passed, as it does.
Then, roughly seven years ago, they both found themselves in San Francisco, a city where rent is high, and avocados are revered as gods. Fate—or let’s be honest, Tinder—brought them together again. They matched, and the conversation went something like this:
“Hey, we went to school together, right?” “Yes, we did. Want to meet up?”
So, they did. They met at a place called Woods, where, in true design-school graduate fashion, they drank craft beer. What was supposed to be a quick catch-up turned into a seven-hour marathon of conversation. It’s not like they solved the world’s problems that night, but they definitely debated the crucial stuff—like whether minimalism was just code for ‘I don’t want to do more work,’ or if the golden ratio was really all it was cracked up to be. About halfway through, Cade paused and asked, “Is this a date, or are we just catching up?” Maggie shrugged and said, “This can be a date.” Then she kissed him. The end. (Well, not really the end, but you get the idea.)
From there, they started dating, and the timing couldn’t have been better. The pandemic hit, and lockdown became the ultimate relationship test. Think of it as an escape room with higher emotional stakes. They passed with flying colors and moved in together during the chaos of quarantine. Soon they found their own apartment, with enough space for two humans and the eventual addition of one hyperactive Australian shepherd, Maslow.
Maslow is, to put it politely, a lot. Imagine having a furry shadow that needs constant attention and thinks fetch is a full-time job. But they love him, even when he insists they throw the ball for the hundredth time that day.
Then came the grand finale: a proposal on a beach on the Big Island in Hawaii. Cade, ever the romantic, popped the question with the Pacific Ocean as their witness. Maggie said yes, because when someone proposes to you on a Hawaiian beach, you don’t say no.
And so here they are—still figuring out how to keep a house plant alive and occasionally getting Maslow to sit for more than three seconds. As for what comes next, well, if they can survive a global pandemic and a dog with the energy of a caffeinated toddler, the rest should be a breeze. Or at least mildly entertaining.