Chap­ter 3 begins as sun­light fil­ters through the trees, with Willem glanc­ing at the deep red of the car and chuck­ling. “It’s har­lot red,” he jokes, the words rolling off his tongue as if they’ve been rehearsed, though the humor is effort­less. Mal­colm shakes his head in amuse­ment, his smile mir­ror­ing the warmth of the moment, and togeth­er they dri­ve onward, the lush green­ery of sum­mer stretch­ing end­less­ly on either side of them. The world out­side feels vast and bright, yet it is the com­fort of their shared under­stand­ing, the years of friend­ship woven into every laugh and exchange, that makes this sim­ple dri­ve feel sig­nif­i­cant.

Arriv­ing home, they are greet­ed by the com­fort­ing aro­ma of sim­mer­ing toma­toes and gar­lic, the air thick with the scent of a meal in progress. Jude is at the stove, stir­ring a saucepan of sauce with a care­ful, prac­ticed hand, his wheel­chair posi­tioned com­fort­ably near the counter. The kitchen, alive with warmth and famil­iar­i­ty, quick­ly fills with the chat­ter of friends as Willem and Mal­colm join Jude, their voic­es over­lap­ping as they recount their dri­ve, the heat, and their excite­ment for the evening ahead. In the midst of it all, Jude looks up at Willem, offer­ing one of those small, pri­vate smiles that speak volumes—a look filled with his­to­ry, qui­et under­stand­ing, and the kind of love that does not demand words to be felt.

As Willem watch­es Jude move through the kitchen with a prac­ticed grace, he feels a deep sense of admi­ra­tion for the way Jude nav­i­gates his world. There is strength in the way he car­ries him­self, nev­er let­ting his dis­abil­i­ty define him, nev­er allow­ing it to over­shad­ow the life they’ve built togeth­er. These qui­et, every­day moments—the laugh­ter of friends, the rit­u­al of prepar­ing din­ner, the sim­ple act of being present—are what Willem has come to trea­sure most. They are the essence of their Hap­py Years, not defined by grand ges­tures or per­fec­tion, but by the unwa­ver­ing com­fort of know­ing they are home, in every sense of the word.

The din­ner table is filled with the live­ly hum of con­ver­sa­tion, plates being passed around, and the occa­sion­al clink­ing of glass­es in silent toasts to noth­ing and every­thing at once. JB may be miss­ing, but his pres­ence is still felt, woven into the fab­ric of their shared mem­o­ries, his absence only a tem­po­rary pause rather than a loss. As they rem­i­nisce about their younger days, the strug­gles, the tri­umphs, and the moments of reck­less joy, Willem real­izes how much they have all changed, yet how the foun­da­tion of their bond remains unshak­en. In this fleet­ing but tan­gi­ble moment of togeth­er­ness, he under­stands that despite the hard­ships, they have built some­thing extraordinary—a life shaped by love, resilience, and the qui­et strength of endur­ing friend­ship.

As the evening winds down, Willem finds him­self lost in thought, reflect­ing on the road that led them here. He thinks of the past—their ear­ly years, the strug­gles that once felt insur­mount­able, the uncer­tain­ty of what their lives would become. And yet, here they are, stand­ing in the after­math of all those bat­tles, still togeth­er, still choos­ing one anoth­er every sin­gle day. It is a rev­e­la­tion that fills him with both grat­i­tude and a qui­et cer­tain­ty that what they have is rare and unbreak­able.

Lat­er, as he helps Jude pre­pare for bed, the inti­ma­cy of these small moments car­ries more weight than any dec­la­ra­tion of love ever could. The brush­ing of teeth, the qui­et exchange of glances, the gen­tle ease with which they move around each other—these are the pieces of their life that mat­ter most, the small things that add up to some­thing mon­u­men­tal. Willem feels a deep, unshak­able appre­ci­a­tion for it all: for Jude, for their friends, for the sim­ple yet pro­found act of being able to share anoth­er day togeth­er.

Lying in bed, Willem allows him­self a moment of still­ness, feel­ing Jude’s warmth beside him, lis­ten­ing to the rhythm of his breath. The future is uncer­tain, as it always has been, but what he knows for sure is that they will face it togeth­er, just as they always have. As sleep begins to take hold, he whis­pers into the dark­ness, the words meant for no one but him­self, yet car­ry­ing the weight of every promise ever made. “For you, Jude. Always for you.”