October, The Odd Ones

She sat across from us, as steady as always, her expression open, warm, waiting, like someone gently coaxing a sealed door to unlock.

"I want to try something different today," Dr. Mireille said, folding her hands in her lap. "I'd like each of you to recall a moment when you felt most loved by your partner. A moment that stayed with you because of how it made you feel."

The air shifted.  My thoughts flicked through years like cards in a deck—holidays, hospital rooms, the birth of our children, the blur of ordinary Tuesdays. Then something surfaced. Not dramatic. Not grand. Just... lasting.

"I think I have one," I said softly.

She gave me a small, encouraging nod. "Go ahead, October."

I glanced at Thomas, and the memory warmed me from the inside. "It wasn't anything huge. It was after Alice was born. I'd been up all night, rocking her until my arms felt like they belonged to someone else. The baby wouldn't settle, and I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from a shower I couldn't even recall taking. I felt... scraped thin. Almost hollow. Like every part of me had been poured into her, and there was nothing left."

I paused, swallowing the knot rising in my throat. "Then you came in. You didn't say much at first. You just looked at me and then you started talking. You told me how proud you were of me, how much you loved me. You kept saying it, over and over in different ways. That I was a good mother. That you could see how hard I was trying, how much I was giving. I remember thinking... it's rare for you to say things like that out loud. But somehow, you knew I needed to hear them right then, even though I didn't ask. I didn't even know how to ask."

My voice trembled, the memory making my chest ache and warm all at once. "When I nodded, because I couldn't speak, you sat behind me on the bed. You wrapped your arms around me, your chest against my back, and just stayed. You didn't tell me to get some sleep, or that it would all be okay tomorrow. You didn't rush me past it. You just held me, kissed the side of my neck, and kept telling me I was doing a great job, even if I couldn't see it."

I let out a shaky breath. "In that moment, I felt loved. Not just for being your wife, or for holding it all together, but loved as me. I felt heard. I felt seen. And I felt... appreciated, in a way that sank all the way in."

For a second, my eyes caught his and I could see the softness there, the faint surprise that I had carried this moment for so long. And maybe that was the truth of it: it hadn't been grand or loud, but it had stayed.

"Thomas? Do you have a specific memory in mind?"

"Yeah," he said eventually, the word catching in his throat. "I remember one."

He shifted in his seat, shoulders tight at first, like it cost him something to let the words come. "There was this train model I used to build as a kid. Beth and I did it together, she never really cared about trains, but she did it for me. It wasn't about the model itself, really. It was... a way to get away. To shut the door on what was happening inside the house. The noise, the silence, the feeling that anything could break at any second."

His gaze dropped to his hands, fingers twisting together. "And then there was this day. My father... he lost his temper. He threw the whole thing. Smashed the carriages, bent the brass rails, crushed the tiny wheels and couplers—pieces so small they'd disappear into the carpet. He forbid them from coming into the house again. Just like that, they were gone. It felt stupid, but I held onto those broken bits longer than I probably should've."

For a moment, he looked away, and his voice went quieter, almost boyish. "I never really talked about it. Not even to Beth, not really. I don't think I ever told you what those trains meant to me. It was just something that lived in the background of who I am."

He took a breath, and when he looked up at me, his eyes had gone softer, more open than I'd seen in a long time. "Then... one day, you handed me this box. Inside was the same train model. Rebuilt. Painted in the exact colors we'd used. You even found the tiny water-slide decals we messed up the first time. Later, I found out you'd called Beth, asked her about the details I'd forgotten, and then spent nights hunting down the exact kit, something that hadn't been made in years. You did all that quietly, without telling me."

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper now. "That's when I felt loved. Because you saw something that mattered to me, something I hadn't even said aloud and you brought it back. Not with a big speech or some grand gesture. But with patience. With care. With all those quiet, stubborn hours you spent at a kitchen table covered in glue and paint."

He blinked, like he was still surprised by how deeply it had landed. "It wasn't just a model train. It was like... you reached back into something broken in me and gently put it back together. And you didn't even tell me you were doing it."

He paused, breath catching. "That's when I knew. Because you loved even the part of me that still hurts."

The counselor gave us both a moment to sit in that.

"You've shared the moments when you felt most loved by one another," she said. "Now I want to shift your attention. I want each of you to tell me: What's something you've done  for your partner that, for you, was an act of love?  A gesture that might've gone unnoticed, but that came straight from your heart."

I felt the question land somewhere quiet inside me. There were a hundred little things I could name. But some stood out like threads in a tapestry, delicate, but holding everything together.

I spoke first.

"For me," I said, "it's... the way I say it every day. I know it sounds simple, but I never want a day to pass without him hearing it—I love you, I'm grateful for you, I'm so lucky you're mine. I say it when we're tired. When we're rushed. When we're okay and when we're not. Because I want him to live inside that knowledge, the way I live inside loving him."

I turned slightly, catching Thomas's profile. "I try to make our home feel safe. I light candles, I play music I know calms him down, I fold the blankets a certain way because I know he notices that. I make sure the space feels soft, not perfect, not staged, just... peaceful. Like a place where he can breathe and relax."

Thomas glanced at me, and I saw something stir in his eyes.

"I massage his shoulders when he's had a long day," I added, quieter now. "I sing for him sometimes when he's falling asleep. I love on him—physically, it's like I'm saying: You are mine, and you are safe here."

The counselor didn't interrupt. She gave the moment space.

"And Thomas?" she asked softly. "What about you?"

He hesitated, then he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady.

"I think... for me, it's the way I adjust," he said. "Quietly. I've changed things for her because I saw what mattered to her, I make sure her days run smoothly, so she doesn't have to carry more than she already does. "

He looked at me then, fully. "You said you love the French language so I learned it . I spent months learning words I'll probably never use anywhere else, just because you wanted to hear it."

I felt a rush of warmth bloom in my chest.

"Also maybe when we were house-hunting," he continued, "I had my eye on a different place. Bigger. Quieter. More practical. But you... you walked into this house and lit up like you belonged here. You didn't even say it! you just breathed differently in this space. So I changed my plans. Because loving you means seeing you and I saw you fall in love with this house. That was enough."

He paused, then added, a little shyly, "and I give, in the ways I know how. I buy the things I know you won't ask for. I fix the things you don't notice are broken yet. I try to carry the invisible weight. So you don't have to."

The counselor nodded, her gaze moving gently between us. 

"Do you see it?" she asked gently, her gaze moving between us. "October, you feel loved through closeness, words spoken out loud, or the weight of an arm around your shoulders, a kiss on your neck when you're falling apart. Thomas, you feel loved when October notices what matters to you, when she moves quietly in the background to make your world softer, fixing, remembering, building."

She let that settle for a moment, giving us space to really hear it.

"The issue isn't that either of you stopped loving," she continued, her voice softer still. "It's that you both learned to express love the way you know how, the way it feels right inside you. But love doesn't always land the way it's sent. It isn't wrong to love like that but sometimes, it doesn't come across the way you intended."

She paused, letting the quiet stretch out, as if she trusted us to fill it with something truer than words. I felt Thomas's thumb brush lightly over the back of my hand, awkward at first, then steadier. A small gesture, but it made something deep in my chest unclench.

The counselor waited until our hands had settled into each other, her eyes kind but steady, then leaned in just a little, enough to feel like she was speaking only to us.

She let that sink in, the room holding a soft hush. "Neither of you is wrong. Neither language is more real or more loving. But when you don't translate it, when October can't see the love hiding behind the quiet gestures, or when Thomas misses the love wrapped in words and touch, you both end up feeling unseen, even while standing right in front of each other."

"So the work now," she said, "isn't to love more, but to love differently. To learn to speak your partner's language even when it feels unfamiliar or awkward on your tongue. To remember that what matters isn't just giving love, but giving it in the shape your partner can recognize, trust, and hold."

She let out a small breath, almost a smile. "That's where love grows up. When it learns to bend."

She paused, her hands folding in her lap. "So the work now isn't just about giving love, because you've both done that, again and again. The work is learning to recognize it when it comes dressed in a form that isn't your native tongue. To see love not only in the ways you wish to receive it, but also in the ways your partner knows how to give it."

She smiled softly, almost wistful. "That's where closeness grows. Not by changing who you are, but by learning to hear each other's quietest language and answering it, gently, with your own."

"So here's what I'd like you both to do this week: speak each other's language: deliberately, consciously. October, that means doing something for Thomas, something that might look small from the outside but would mean a lot to him and Thomas, I want you to try saying something to October, words she can hear and carry with her. It doesn't have to be long. It just has to be true."

*

A few days later, I found myself standing outside The Marigold, the dog shelter Thomas owns, tucked behind an old brick building with ivy creeping along the sides and a hand-painted sign that always made me smile, no matter how heavy my mood. My dad had mentioned Thomas's schedule in passing, and though I'd nodded politely, I tucked the detail away like something precious. At first, I'd hesitated. Showing up unannounced felt risky, like walking a tightrope with no net. What if he was busy, tired, not in the mood to see me? What if it made things worse?

But then I remembered what the counselor had said: Show love in his language. And I realized he was giving me space, waiting for me to go first, to be the one to start this exercise.

I stepped inside, the scent of wet fur, medicated shampoo, and bleach mixing into something oddly tender, like the smell of effort and care. A terrier's bark bounced sharp against the tiled walls, followed by the shriek-laugh of a young staff member being dragged down a hallway by a leash and over all of it, like a thread pulling the noise into something bearable, I heard his laugh.

Not the tired chuckle he gave at home. Not the polite sound he made at dinner with his parents. This was different, deep, unguarded, almost boyish. The kind of laugh I hadn't heard in months. He was crouched in the back corridor beside a golden retriever that looked like it weighed as much as I did. His sleeves were shoved past his elbows, arms streaked with what I hoped was mud, and his hair was falling into his eyes. Two younger employees darted behind him trying to calm a group of overexcited puppies.

When he looked up and saw me, his whole face changed. Surprise flared fast, then melted into something warmer, something softer.

"October?"

He stood quickly, wiping his hands on a rag that was far too dirty to be helpful. "What are you...are you okay?"

I smiled, trying not to show how nervous I was. "I thought I'd come see where you work." 

It came out light, teasing. But my chest was pounding. He stared at me for a moment longer, then something in his shoulders eased. "God, I'm glad you did. Come on, come, I'll show you around. But watch your step and your shoes."

He gave me a tour like he was introducing me to an extended family. Each dog had a name, a 온라인카지노게임, a personality quirk that he described with more care than I'd heard him use in weeks.

"This one's Leo: he acts like a bodyguard, but scratch behind his ear and he turns into a puddle."

"That's Mia: she chewed through a leash in three minutes flat. We think she's part velociraptor."

The more he spoke, the more I saw it, the man I loved, revealed in motion. The way he reached out to calm a skittish puppy with his palm. The way he smiled when one of the teens got a dog to sit for the first time. The way he kept one foot angled toward me, like part of him had never stopped watching, never stopped waiting.

"You look happy here," I said quietly.

He glanced over his shoulder, a smudge of something dark on his cheek, his eyes a little tired but unmistakably alive.

"I am," he said. "It's messy, and loud, and kind of smells like a barn half the time... but it feels worth it."

For a moment, just watching him move between the kennels and chaos, I remembered what it was like in the beginning. By the time I said goodbye to Byron, the terrier who'd nearly tackled me with love, my jeans were streaked with paw prints and my hair smelled like medicated shampoo. I didn't care. I hadn't felt that kind of warmth in weeks.

At the door, I paused, meaning to just smile and go, to leave him in his element without overstepping. But Thomas stepped toward me, close enough that I could see the tiny scratches on his forearm, the flush on his neck from working. He lifted a hand, brushed something from my cheek, mud, maybe, or fur, and let his fingers linger there. His touch wasn't possessive. It was reverent, almost tentative.

"Stay. Just a bit more, please..."

The words came out in a breath, soft and low, and then he leaned in, not all the way, just enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath near my ear.

"Tu n'imagines pas combien tu m'as manqué." The words curled through me like smoke, warm, aching, familiar even though I didn't fully understand.

I shivered, my voice barely a whisper. "What does that mean?"

He pulled back, just far enough to meet my eyes, his smile tender. "You have no idea how much I've missed you."

For a moment, the barking behind us faded into something distant. The grime, the noise, the chaos of everything, it was all still there, pressing in from every side but we were there too, together again, even if just for this breath. I leaned in, hesitant and raw, until my chest touched his shirt, and in the hush between our breaths, it felt like coming home.