I used to peel my oranges until ...

I used to peel my oranges until he did it for me—without being asked, without hesitation. He did it with a smile, and without expecting anything in return. His gestures weren’t glamorous, flashy, or dramatic. But they were real.

He peeled oranges even when it was inconvenient for him. Sticky fingers, quiet patience, a small act of service that spoke louder than words. He stayed by my side when I was on the verge of breaking down, cheering for me to continue. 

The Orange Peel Theory says that love is revealed in the little things, like peeling fruit for someone. But his patience and care go beyond the theory. It wasn’t just about the orange. It was about showing up, even when life (my life, specifically) was messy. It was about choosing tenderness over convenience, presence over absence.

And maybe that’s what love really is: not the grand gestures, not the spectacle, but the everyday rituals and little things that make life softer and grand. The quiet acts that no one else sees. The invisible threads that hold us together.

I realized that love isn’t always fireworks and rainbows.  Sometimes it’s just hands peeling fruit, laughter in the kitchen, or someone waiting patiently while you find your strength again. Sometimes it’s the smallest act that carries the heaviest weight.

Instead of thinking of oranges as just fruit, I think of them as reminders. Not of grand gestures, but of the quiet ones—the kind that don’t need an audience. The kind that stay with you. The kind that make the hard days softer.

Oranges used to be ordinary. Now they remind me of care, the kind that’s simple, steady, and enough.

For Patrick. 

-E