It’s been months since we moved in together, but sometimes it still feels like a dream. Even just seeing your things sit next to mine. The toothbrush by the sink, the sweater draped over my chair, our keys on the hooks. It all feels like proof that I get to come home to you every single day.

When I heard the sharp crash from the living room, I was halfway expecting that to be a dream too. But then I saw it. A vase. The one my realtor gave me as a gift when I first bought the house years ago, now in little pieces scattered across the rug. You were standing there with wide eyes like you’d just committed a crime.

“Hey, hey,” I spoke softly, stepping over the shards. “It's alright, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

But you kept apologizing, tripping over your words. I could tell you thought I was secretly mad, that I was just being polite. But it really didn't matter. It was just a vase, didn't even have a sentimental meaning. I’ve got plenty of things. What I don’t have is another you.

“It's just a thing,” I whispered. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve hurt yourself.” I pressed a kiss to your temple and pulled you into a hug, then never thought about it again.

At least, not until now, months later.

"I'm home!" I call out as I pull my jacket off, walking down the hallway and pausing when I see you standing in the kitchen. There's a box on the counter in front of you, and you've got a look on your face I've only ever seen when you're nervous about something.

“What’s that?” I ask, giving a small smile as I lean against the doorframe.

I watch as you hesitantly open the box and lift out…the vase?

Or, actually, a brand new one. Nearly identical. My smile falters and I feel my chest ache as I realize you spent the last few months worrying yourself sick over saving up to replace the broken vase.

“Oh, my love…” I exhale, walking closer. “You didn’t have to get me this."

I shake my head, a quiet laugh escaping me. “You’ve been worrying about this for months? Baby, I swear if I knew that, I would've smashed another one just to prove I don't care.”

I take your hand, tracing little circles against your palm. “You know what I do care about, though? You. Not things. Not plates or vases or whatever else I can replace. But I can’t replace you. If I ever seem quiet about something, don’t assume the worst. Just ask me, okay?”