you leave it on her pillow.

folded in half, messy handwriting, way too many words. you tell yourself it’s not a big deal. just a letter. just paper. just ink. you go home. you wait. you panic.

your phone is quiet for hours. hours. you’re about to delete your entire existence when she finally texts:

“so.”

your stomach drops.

“you left me a novel.”

you consider never responding again. moving to a forest. befriending moss.

then she sends another:

“come over.”

—

you’re standing in her room like you’ve been summoned to court. she’s on the bed, cross-legged, wearing that oversized tee you love. letter in her lap. you’ve never wanted to evaporate faster.

“i counted,” she says, flipping a page dramatically. “four pages.”

you mumble, “i got carried away.”

“you compared my laugh to sunshine and fresh strawberries.”

“i blacked out.”

“you said my voice is your favorite place to be.”

“okay now you’re mocking me—”

“i’m reciting you,” she says, eyes soft now. “don’t you dare.”

you shut up.

she looks down at the letter again, and everything about her goes quiet in that way she gets when she’s overwhelmed — the good kind. the kind that means this is sinking in.

“you said you’re scared,” she murmurs. “because you love me so much, it makes your ribs hurt.”

you swallow. “i do.”

“i know.” she folds the letter carefully, then pats the bed beside her. “come here.”

you go, obviously.

she tucks her head into your shoulder. warm, gentle. your heart is a creature trying to climb out of your chest.

“you’re stupid,” she whispers.

“you’re mean.”

“you’re mine.”

you look down at her. “yeah?”

“mhm.” she taps your chest, right over your heartbeat. “and you’re mine.”

then she holds the letter up, waves it like a flag.

“i’m framing this.”

you groan. “please don’t—”

“i’m laminating it.”

“you’re evil.”

“you’re romantic.”

and then she kisses you. slow. like she’s answering everything you wrote without needing any words at all.

you think, i should write her another one. just in case she ever forgets.