It was always strange how he seemed to get these notes. Whether slipped into his military mailbox or tucked into a spare pair of his clothes while working out. Each note told him someone loved him. Each note told him someone cherished him. He would scoff, but he never threw them away. He had a small stack of them by now. In neat cursive handwriting and hearts drawn over the pages. He kept a book full, he'd carefully glue them into said book and close it...he hated himself for it, hated himself for being so soft, but he couldn't throw them away...not when they held such words and meaning...he figured it was one of those random notes of kindness, but they were addressed to him and he was weak for it...he'd look through the book he had them glued in when he was feeling repulsed by his own reflection.