Page 178 of The Incredible Ordinary

Like how Dad always remembers where Milán leaves his keys. Not because Milán is particularly organized. He’s not. But because he has these little habits Dad knows. He doesn’t even need to think about it. If Milán is looking for his keys, Dad always knows where they are.

Or how Milán refills Dad’s coffee before Dad even realizes it’s empty.

Or the time we took a road trip two summers ago where Milán insisted we detour three hours just to see a waterfall Dad had read about somewhere.

Or the way they somehow manage to stand close to each other in every room without seemingly planning to. But if Dad’s at the stove, Milán ends up leaning on the counter next to him. If Milán is looking for something in the fridge, Dad’s suddenly there, too, grabbing a drink or something.

In the living room, if they ever start on the opposite ends of the couch, they always somehow end up moving to the middle together, until they’re shoulder to shoulder, without either of them really even realizing it.

It’s subtle.

If you didn’t pay attention, you’d probably never notice.

But once you do notice, you can’t stop seeing it.

It’s like gravity.

They just… drift together.

Not consciously. Not because they’re making some kind of statement.

It’s just because that’s where they naturally end up.

It’s the quiet kind of love that’s just there. Always.

And then the big gestures start to feel less like the point of it all. Those will be more like bonus features.

Because the real thing is all the small moments in between.

Five years. That’s how long we’ve been doing this.

Five years since that punch during lunch break started it all.

Five years of camping trips and road trips and movie nights and video games and dinners and… life.

It’s weird how quickly something becomes normal.

“You missed a button,” Dad tells Milán.

“I did not.” He looks down. Dad’s already fixing it for him. They’re smiling at each other. The kind of secret, knowing smile, chock full of love.

I might not be nervous, but Dad definitely looks at least a little bit more nervous than he did before. He’s trying not to show it, but I know the signs. He taps his fingers against the counter and keeps glancing at the clock.

Milán notices, too. Of course he does.

He reaches over and squeezes the back of Dad’s neck gently. It’s just a quick, grounding touch. Dad relaxes immediately.

It’s the smallest things.

Every time.

Soon enough, it’s time. We start gathering everything.

Keys.

Phones.

Caps.