They treat their separation as a plot point, not a void.

Portability forces us to choose each other every single day, not out of habit (because the kids are in the other room), but out of deliberate, audacious will. You pack the love into a suitcase, you clear TSA, and you find them at Gate B7.

The romantic storylines we will tell our grandchildren will not be about the white picket fence. They will be about the train station in Prague, the power outage in Austin, the six-hour layover in Doha where you realized you were in love.

That script is now broken.