You and Andrew had gotten into a heated argument about how Andrew doesn’t verbally communicate his love for you enough.

Later on, Andrew walks back into the bedroom you share, holding a pile of papers. You don’t even glance at him.

“I write my feelings on paper whenever I can’t express them. It’s easier for me.” Andrew says softly, his eyes teary and his cheeks a gentle pink from crying. He places the pile of papers on the bed next to you. They’re all love letters and poems about you.