I told myself it was fine. It always was. These things happened. Still, there was a low-level fatigue that came with knowing I’d need to mentally walk him through a task I normally handled without thinking.
Even as I tried to shake it off, that quiet expectation lingered, settling into the background of my thoughts.
Time passed. I moved through the house, straightening cushions, rinsing a mug left on the counter, listening for the sound of his car in the driveway. When the front door finally opened, grocery bags rustled—a soft, unmistakable sound that usually barely registered.
He stepped inside, cheeks slightly pink from the cold, hair tousled by the wind. He set the bags down on the kitchen counter and began unloading them one by one, the rhythm familiar and unhurried.
Then I saw it.
There, nestled neatly among the groceries, was the exact brand and type of sanitary pads I always buy. Not a close approximation. Not something vaguely similar. The precise ones, down to the smallest detail.
I stared at them for a beat longer than necessary, a laugh bubbling out of me before I could stop it. “Wait,” I said, picking up the package and turning it over in my hands as if it might dissolve into something else. “How did you know these were the right ones?”
He glanced over, caught my expression, and smiled—a little crooked, a little shy. He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he does when he feels quietly proud but doesn’t want to make a show of it. “I’ve seen you grab them so many times,” he said. “I guess it just… stuck.”
Something in my chest loosened. Not all at once, but gently, like a knot slowly giving way. This wasn’t a grand gesture. There were no flowers, no dramatic speeches, no sweeping declarations. Yet the simplicity of it landed harder than anything extravagant ever could have.
He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t guessed. He had remembered.
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