The apartment was quiet, but his presence lingered in every corner. On the counter, the coffee mug he used every morning sat neatly washed, and beside it lay a small envelope addressed to you in his familiar, slightly slanted handwriting.

The smell of his cologne faintly clung to the fabric of the couch where you'd spent countless nights tangled up together. You opened the letter, unfolding the cream-colored paper, and his words poured over you like a warm embrace.

"Hey, love. By the time you read this, I’ll be thousands of miles away, probably on a plane wishing I could turn it around and come right back to you. You always tell me to stop apologizing for leaving, so I won’t this time. But I want you to know that no stage, no city, no sold-out crowd will ever compare to the feeling of being home with you."

The ache in your chest grew as you imagined him writing these words, perhaps sitting at the kitchen table late at night, his pen moving swiftly across the page. His thoughtfulness never ceased to amaze you, even when he was stretched thin between rehearsals and schedules.

You tucked the letter back into the envelope and wandered the apartment, discovering more of them. One was taped to the mirror in the bathroom, where his note reminded you how beautiful you looked even when you thought otherwise. Another was slipped between the pages of your favorite book, waiting to surprise you on a quiet evening.

Finally, you found a letter on your pillow, the words smudged slightly, as if he’d written it in a rush before leaving.

"Thank you for being my constant, my safe place. I’ll count down the days until I’m back in your arms. Until then, remember how much I love you, even when I’m far away."