Books, Bards & Baselines

You had me at “We were both young when I first saw you.”
I mean… come on. A single sentence and I was swept into a glittery school dance I’d never attended, heart pounding for a boy I’d never met. I didn’t even like country music at the time—but Taylor made it feel like a fairy tale written in the margins just for me.
That was the day I realized that music could tell stories, that four minutes could hold a novel’s worth of longing. “Love Story” wasn’t just a song—it was a soft opening of the door to something I’ve never stopped running toward. (Also, shoutout to 2008 me and that clunky little MP3 player I thought was the height of sophistication.)

You had me at “It is a truth universally acknowledged…”
The sheer elegance. The boldness. The wink. Jane Austen doesn’t ask for your attention—she simply begins. And the line is so good, you surrender immediately. That’s when I started noticing the power of first sentences. The confidence. The voice.
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”
“Call me Ishmael.”
“I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.”
These aren’t just openings—they’re handshakes, dare-you-to-read-ons, love letters to curiosity. A good first line doesn't just pull you in. It invites you to stay.

You had me at the library.
Technically, you had me at the returns desk. You, with that slightly crooked smile, that perfect eyeliner, and a stack of overdue philosophy books like it was a personality trait. I think I said something wildly flirtatious like, “You’ve got a lot of fines.” (Smooth, right?) And you, without missing a beat, said, “I’m worth it.”
Reader, I married her.
We were both pretending to be casual, but let’s be real—we were orbiting. Me shelving books I’d already read just to loiter nearby. You checking out yet another existential tome with a grin that said, what if I’m the plot twist?
I still remember dropping a stack of poetry books and muttering, “Well, that’s a metaphor,” and your laugh? Immediate main-character energy.
We’ve been writing our story ever since—side by side, spine to spine, chapter by chapter. And it all started with a late return and a perfectly timed quip.

You had me at love on a hard court.
The thwack of racket against ball, the squeak of sneakers on sun-warmed clay, the impossible beauty of a down-the-line winner hit on the run. Tennis is ballet in motion, chess in real time, and pure emotional theater.
You had me at Sabalenka’s fierce roar, at Alcaraz’s sunshine grin, at Sinner’s elegant calm. At the hush before a serve, the sudden intake of breath in a tie-break, the final ace that seals a miracle comeback.
Tennis isn’t just a sport—it’s a language of effort and instinct, of heartbreak and joy. And somewhere in the middle of a third-set rally that lasts twelve shots, something inside you says: this is love.

So yes—you had me at…
At every lyric that knew my heart before I did.
At every sentence that opened the door to a new world.
At every borrowed book, every shared glance over the top of a hardcover.
At every match point, every midnight rewatch, every athlete who made me feel something.

"You had me at hello" is cute.
But honestly?
You had me at yellow. ☀️