We could drive. It would be faster. But somehow, we almost never do. Instead, we walk to the grocery store. Even in the cold. Even when it’s drizzling. Sometimes we talk the whole way, making fun of the people who put pineapples in their carts in the middle of winter. Sometimes we just walk...

Our bed has two blankets. This is not a romantic, cinematic choice — it’s survival. We’ve tried sharing. We’ve tried tucking, folding, negotiating. Every time, one of us ends up in the middle of the night clutching a scrap of fabric like a shipwreck survivor. Now, we each have our own. His:...

The rain sounded different that night. Maybe because we were both quiet. No TV, no music, just the soft hiss of water against the window. We sat on the couch, feet tangled under the blanket, each holding a mug. We didn’t talk about anything important — just little things, like the cat next door...