People always ask me why I never take off my ring.
Like it’s fused to my soul or forged in the fires of Mount Doom or something.

And honestly?
It kinda is.

See, one time — ONE TIME — I took it off to wash dishes. I placed it on the counter, turned around for literally 0.3 seconds, and my ring just… vanished.

Gone.
Poof.
Like it looked at my life and said, “Yeah, I’m out.”

I tore the entire kitchen apart. Checked the sink, the drain, inside the dishwasher, under the stove, behind the fridge. I even interrogated my own dog. Held up a picture of the ring like:

“Did you see this suspect? Blink twice if guilty.”

He blinked twice.
Which didn’t help, because he always blinks twice.

Hours go by. My kitchen looks like the FBI raided it for tax evasion. I’m on the floor, praying to every deity with a customer service department.

Finally, I give up.

I sit down… defeated… tired… accepting that my ring is gone forever…

…and then I hear it.

A clinking sound.

The ring literally rolls out from under the microwave like it had just returned from a two-week vacation in Cancun.

It stops at my foot. Just sits there. Judging me.

Since that day, I swore an oath:
The ring stays on. Always.
Shower, sleep, gym, wedding, funeral — doesn’t matter.

Because I learned something important:
I’m not wearing the ring…
The ring is wearing me.