Before the paperwork.
Before the signatures.
Before the government employee with tired eyes and a laminated ID badge looked at us and said, "You may now kiss—" then paused, blinked, and corrected herself with, "—sign here."
There was one simple objective on my mind:
Submit the research proposal.
That was it.
Not fall in love. Not enter a legally binding union. Not become the cautionary tale whispered across campus hallways. Not have my mother call me at 6:42 a.m. asking why she found out about my "marriage" through a relative who found it through Facebook.
No.
My goal was academic excellence.
Proper citations.
Flawless argumentation.
A conclusion so airtight it could survive peer review and divine judgment.
Instead, I got married.
Let me clarify something before this narrative spirals into assumptions:
I did not wake up one morning and think, You know what would enrich my educational journey? Matrimony.
I did not trip, fall, and accidentally land in a wedding registry.
I did not circle "Married" on a form because my pen slipped.
This—
—was clerical incompetence.
Administrative negligence.
A bureaucratic domino effect triggered by one poorly designed digital system that apparently believes joint submissions equal lifelong commitment.
And if you are wondering who the other unfortunate participant in this administrative catastrophe is—
It is Nathaniel Rowan Clarke.
Of course it is.
Who else would fate legally tether me to if not the one man I have been intellectually sparring with since childhood?
The boy who corrected my misuse of "affect" and "effect" in third grade.
The teenager who once told me my thesis statement was "ambitious but structurally unstable."
The adult who still tilts his head before dismantling my arguments with unnerving calm.
Nathaniel Clarke.
Human spreadsheet.
Walking citation index.
Emotionally reserved Capricorn with the audacity to look composed in every crisis.
And now—
My husband.
I hate how grammatically correct that sounds.
To be fair, the sequence of events was simple. Deceptively simple.
Professor assigns group research. Everyone forms trios. I am left mid-monologue about narrative authority. He is left because people find him intimidating. We are forced into partnership. We submit documentation for joint academic clearance. System processes application under "marital collaboration" category instead of "research collaboration." Registrar validates. Certificate prints. Database updates. Families notified through automatic civil registry sync.
Efficiency is a beautiful thing.
When applied correctly.
Do you know what Nathaniel said when we realized what happened?
He adjusted his sleeve.
Looked at the document.
And said, "This is... administratively inconvenient."
Administratively.
Inconvenient.
I, on the other hand, experienced what scholars might refer to as a controlled existential implosion.
But I did not scream.
I articulated.
There is a difference.
Because here is the part no one prepares you for:
When a mistake becomes official, it stops feeling like a mistake.
The paper is embossed.
The seal is stamped.
The signatures are real.
Mine.
And his.
Which means that, until the annulment is processed and the legal machinery reverses itself, I am—
Legally.
Bound.
To Nathaniel Clarke.
And before you romanticize this—don't.
This is not fate weaving red strings.
This is not childhood rivals realizing hidden affection.
This is not tension resolving into longing.
This is paperwork.
Highly inconvenient paperwork.
Do I intend to fix it?
Absolutely.
Annulments exist.
Appeals exist.
Corrective filings exist.
And I excel at structured argumentation.
But if there is one thing I have learned from knowing Nathaniel for most of my life, it is this:
Nothing involving him is ever simple.
Because beneath the logic, beneath the composure, beneath the infuriating steadiness—
He does not panic.
And that might be the most destabilizing thing of all.
So if you are expecting a sweeping romance, temper your expectations.
Right now, this is not a love story.
It is a clerical error.
One I fully intend to correct.
Preferably in MLA format...