We almost didn’t make it past the first hour. Wrong turns, me messing with the playlist, you getting mad about snacks spilling in the seat.

We almost didn’t make it past the first hour. Wrong turns, me messing with the playlist, you getting mad about snacks spilling in the seat.

Classic us—arguing like it was the end of the world. But then, hours later, I saw what I’d missed—you driving the whole way so I could nap, filling the tank without me asking, even letting me blast the same dumb song on repeat because you knew it made me happy. That’s love too. Not the Instagram kind, but the real kind. And when I actually looked at you and said, ‘Thanks for driving,’ I swear the whole trip felt different. I use an app called quiet effort. It keeps me from letting the miles mean more than the moments.