Future Husband

“I didn’t believe in soulmates until I met him... and then he ghosted me.”

That line had been Olivia’s dating life in a nutshell. At 29, living in a sleek apartment overlooking downtown Seattle, with a thriving graphic design career and a solid circle of friends, she had everything—except a love life that wasn’t a series of left swipes and awkward first dates.

It wasn’t that Olivia was picky. Okay, maybe a little. She had grown up in a divorced household, watching her mother remarry twice before deciding solitude was safer than heartbreak. Olivia promised herself she’d only marry once—if at all—and it would be to someone who understood her silence, laughed at her sarcasm, and made pancakes on Sundays without asking.

Her friends told her she was chasing a fantasy. “There’s no such thing as a perfect guy,” her roommate Anna often reminded her between dating app notifications. “You’ve got to meet them in real life, not in your head.”

So, Olivia did something she had never done before: she deleted all the dating apps.

Instead, she made a list. Not of qualities, but of experiences she wanted to share with her “future husband,” whoever he was.

• Stargazing from the back of a truck

• Visiting the Northern Lights

• Sharing a quiet morning with coffee and no phones

• Dancing in the kitchen to ‘80s music

She pinned the list to her fridge like a vision board.

One rainy Saturday afternoon, Olivia wandered into a local bookstore. It was the kind of place that smelled like old paper and cinnamon, with jazz humming from dusty speakers. She browsed without purpose—until she reached for a book at the same time as someone else.

“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back.

“No, go ahead,” came a calm, slightly amused voice.

She looked up—and met eyes that held stories. The man was tall, dressed in a rain-speckled wool coat, with messy hair and a crooked smile.

He nodded toward the book. “I’ve read it twice. It gets better the second time.”

“Then maybe I’ll get it and read it twice,” she replied.

They ended up talking for twenty minutes between the aisles. His name was Ethan. He was a photographer who traveled often but always came back to Seattle. He offered her a recommendation for another book. She offered him a coffee.

Their first date was at a little cafe with mismatched chairs and hand-drawn menus. He didn’t ask about her exes. She didn’t ask about his future plans. They just talked—about books, about bad weather, about how airports made them feel both excited and lonely.

Weeks passed. Then months.

Ethan didn’t check every box Olivia had imagined. He didn’t like dogs. He didn’t care for cooking. But he made her laugh when she forgot how to. He sent her postcards even when he was just gone for two days. And once, after a bad day at work, he brought her a donut and said, “It’s not a solution. But it’s sugar.”

One night, wrapped in a blanket on her balcony, she showed him the list on her phone.

“I was saving this for my future husband,” she said, a little embarrassed.

He read the list silently, then looked up. “How about we check off the first one next weekend? I know a good truck bed and a sky full of stars.”

Olivia smiled.

She still didn’t know what the future held. Maybe life would twist or stall or change. But in that moment, she realized something important:

Your future husband doesn’t always show up as a grand entrance. Sometimes, he appears between bookshelves on a rainy day, asking if you’ve read the ending yet.

And sometimes, the best love stories begin after you stop trying to write them.