We met on Hinge. Our first date was six hours long in a blizzard. The snow fell and we talked and somewhere in those hours we both knew: this was it. We would not look back. 

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The life we've built together is made of small but meaningful things. We've traveled to understand that the world is both vast and within reach. We've been to concerts and danced on the street and in our kitchen at midnight, learning that the best part of love is finding someone who makes you remember what it felt like to be unapologetically playful. We held our friend's newborn and felt the terror and wonder of how fragile and inevitable life is. We've helped each other through the long hours. Burhan through campaigns and legislation, Vijeta through the years of her PhD. We learned early that you don't succeed alone. You succeed because someone believes in you when you've stopped believing in yourself.

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But the life, the one we want to tell you about, is the one we've made in our home in Cambridge.

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Our house is ordinary from the outside. Inside, it holds more joy than seems possible. Every March, we host a Pi Day party. The first year, seventy-five people came. Then the function grew exponentially. People spill from the living room into the kitchen, onto the streets even when it's cold, eating pie and talking until late because no one wants to leave. Each year the circle grows. Not because we're trying to collect people, but because this is what happens when you make a home that welcomes: it expands to hold everyone who needs it.

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For us, immigrants, people who left places where everyone knew our families, this matters more than we can say. Cambridge has become ours in that every walk is interrupted by a familiar face. Every errand becomes a conversation. The probability of running into someone we know on any given walk approaches 1. The city knows us now. And we know it. 

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Our friends are everywhere. We've traveled with them, stood beside them at their weddings, been married by them. The community we've found here isn't separate from our love for each other.  We built this together: this home, this life where the boundaries between private and communal dissolve until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

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And now we want to invite you into it.

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All of you. The friends from that first year, the ones we've found since, the family who crossed oceans, the hundreds of people we hope will come dance with us. We want you to see what we've made here. The home where we laugh and stay up too late. The community that held us when we needed holding. The life we built by refusing to accept that borders, geographic, social, historical, have to mean separation.

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Come walk these streets with us. Watch how many times we stop, how many people we greet, how a simple walk becomes a series of reunions. This is what we want to share: our wedding, this whole life, this belonging we've found in each other and then discovered we could extend outward, infinitely. Two bodies orbiting a shared center of gravity, each making the other more luminous, pulling everything around us into something larger than we could be alone.

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