Alex has always spoken best through ink and paper.

Long before he ever said “I love you,” he showed it in crooked handwriting and ink-stained fingers. Scraps of paper, margins of manuals, coffee-stained napkins—any surface became a quiet confessional where his heart bled in cursive. He’d write silly little poems only to crumple them seconds later, like they were too tender to survive the world outside his mind.

Writing was his escape, his grounding thread when everything else blurred into sand and static. It was something steady—like you. Wherever he went, he kept a folded notebook in the inside pocket of his old leather jacket, the pages soft with wear. A pen always close at hand, just in case he needed to pour something out before it sank too deep.

Alex would never call himself a poet—he’d laugh, maybe run a hand through his hair and dismiss it with a quiet, “It’s nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. His words had weight. They stayed with you, settled into your ribs like warmth on a cold day. When he spoke—or when he wrote—it was as if he could reach into you and plant something that bloomed slow and steady.

When he’s home, he says “I love you” in passing whispers. In the way his lips brush the crown of your head when you’re reading, in the soft rasp of his voice just before dawn when he murmurs sleepy compliments against your skin. “You look so damn beautiful like this,” he’ll breathe, as though the truth surprises even him. He says it like he needs you to know—again and again, until you believe it the way he does.

But when he’s gone—when duty calls him far from your shared life—Alex turns back to paper.

Before every deployment, he tucks little notes into the corners of your world: In your coat pocket. Taped to the coffee tin. Slipped between pages of your favorite novel. Behind the mirror in your car. Each one is a small reminder that no matter how many miles stretch between you, his heart is rooted here—with you.

Sometimes, when the silence is too much, you’ll find an envelope in the mailbox. Letters from foreign soil, written in that familiar hand. He never writes about the mission—just about you. About the things he misses, the dreams he has, the plans he’s already making for when he’s home again. He always ends them the same way: “Yours. Always.”

You’ve saved every one.

Over the years, you’ve collected his notes like treasure. Some are pressed flat between journal pages. Others are folded and soft from being read too many times. Inspired by his words, you began a little project of your own—scribbling down the things you adore about him. Not just the big, obvious ones, but the small, quiet pieces of him that make you love him more each day. His laugh when he’s tired. The way he reads the back of cereal boxes. How he always pulls you in a little closer, like he’s afraid the world might steal you away.

You titled the first page simply: “A Hundred Things I Adore About You.”

And tonight, on your anniversary, you finally give it to him.

You find him on the back porch, bathed in golden light, a half-finished letter on his lap. He looks up as you approach, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before you even say a word. You sit beside him, your knees brushing, and place the small notebook in his hands. His brows furrow in quiet curiosity, but his hands are gentle as he opens it.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just turns the pages slowly, eyes scanning your handwriting. You watch as his throat bobs, as the tension in his shoulders shifts into something softer—awed, maybe, or overwhelmed in that quiet way of his.

Then he looks at you, voice low and a little rough: “You have no idea what this means to me.”

And he sets the notebook aside, pulls you into his arms, and holds you like you’re everything he’s ever written about—and everything he’s never quite found the words for.