He always left the porch light on when she worked late.
Not because she’d asked. Not because the building was unsafe or the street was dark. Just because, he’d said once when she’d asked him about it, he liked the idea of her turning the corner and seeing it — that warm yellow square in the dark, proof that something was waiting.
She’d been skeptical of this explanation at first. It seemed almost too deliberate, too cinematic, for a man who otherwise expressed love in entirely practical terms: fixed hinges, researched decisions, sensible shoes.
But the light was always on. Every late night, every work trip homecoming, every time she’d had a hard day and texted ahead to say she was running behind. She’d turn the corner and there it would be.
“The light,” she said tonight, coming in to find him already asleep on the couch, a book fallen open on his chest.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at him. The apartment was quiet around him, everything put away, a glass of water on the counter she hadn’t asked for.
She turned off the porch light herself — she was home now, the job was done — and covered him with the blanket from the arm of the couch, and then sat in the chair across from him in the dark, still in her coat, just for a minute.
She thought about all the lights left on across all the years. All the evenings he’d gone to bed before her and still, before sleep, gotten up to flick that switch.
Love sometimes looks like action, she thought. And sometimes it looks like a small, lit square in the dark that says: I was thinking about you getting home.
✦ Today’s Reflection
What is something your partner does consistently, without being asked, that tells you — without words — that they were thinking of you?
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