One time, he asked me if I thought I was the protagonist of my life’s story. I hardly had to hesitate before responding that yes, doesn’t everyone? He shook his head and told me no; in his arc he saw himself as some kind of auxiliary to the main character. After he said that the conversation moved on but I was chewing on that for a while. I turned it over and over in my mouth, wondering why he saw himself that way. I wouldn’t if I were him, obviously. But as I digested that thought, I realized that before I loved him, I was so concerned with finding and understanding myself that of course it felt like the world revolved around me. And then his humble soul brushed up against mine, and it was a big, beautiful breath of fresh air. Each of his qualities suddenly became so much more important than my boring selfishness. That’s what love is, isn’t it, though? It’s the spotlight shifting away from my exhausting self-preoccupation; it’s prioritizing someone else and learning that is so much more fulfilling. And unintentionally, through his quiet humility, he showed me that maybe fate designed him to ultimately be the protagonist of my story.