It seems to be a part of you, like breathing. You look in the mirror after the gym, in stilettos, and think: "Here I am. The real me. And it will always be like this."

And then suddenly the thought slips through: "If, of course, my future husband doesn't mind." Which is still somewhere out there, in the future. Which doesn't exist yet. But that "if" is already appearing. And you catch yourself with a strange feeling: a readiness to change everything. Completely. For love.

Am I ready to give up my morning runs if he values ​​breakfast together? Take off my favorite heels if he says he wants to see me in sneakers and happy by his side? Rebuild my entire rhythm of life, which now seems the only right one?

I don't know the answer yet. But I already feel that true love can rewrite even the most steadfast "forever." And that's both terrifying and beautiful. Because at twenty, you still think you're choosing who you'll be. And then you realize: sometimes you're choosing not yourself, but the person for whom you're willing to become someone else.