Tucking a note into their bag or pocket for later - so many possibilities 🥹
I decided to try something a little different for this one :)
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I love you, please don't get eaten by a bear
She finds the words scribbled across the parchment paper he wrapped her sandwich in. There's a whole stack of them in the freezer, so she always has something to throw in her bag before heading to the woods. She never has to think too hard about where her next meal will come from anymore. She hunts out of habit, though more days than not she doesn't hunt at all. Today is one of those days, where the weather was far too nice for her to focus on anything besides the feel of the sun on her skin and the dirt under her nails. He won't mind; they never have to think too hard about where their next meal will come from.
She sits up high in a tree, smiling to herself as her mouth fills with peanut butter and strawberry jam. She tries to decide if this is an improvment or not over Wednesday's message, "I love you, please don't fall out of a tree." She wonders what the rest say. She'll find out soon enough. She never has too think too hard about where her next meal will come from.
I love you, please don't burn your fingers
He pins it to the wall in his office in the bakery. The building is in some ways identical to the one he grew up in, in others unrecognizable. He's still getting used to it. It's like him, he supposes. A patchwork of what was and what is and what will be. Some parts old and familiar, some grafted over with new skin.
She had meant it as a joke. A parody of the notes he leaves in her lunch for her to find. It's meant to bring to mind her smug grin. But he pinned it to the wall with full sincerity. He's still getting used to it. Knowing he is loved by her, when he used to know uncertainty. Knowing someone cares if he's hurt, when he used to know harsh words and angrier marks on his skin. So he pins it to the wall, as a reminder to protect what is precious, both the old and the new. He's still getting used to it.
I love you, please eat something
There are days she can't move. Where the monster rears its ugly head, and sits on her chest, and tells her it will always be like this. But when it does, he's there. He holds her so her body remembers the feel of something soft and warm. He speaks in quiet, soothing tones at a pitch the monster can't hear. He reminds her that things have been good before, and they'll be good again.
He always makes sure the monster is asleep before he goes. He doesn't trust it to be alone with her. But if it's asleep, she probably is too. It tends to wear her out. These are the days he feels that it's safe to leave, to take care of otherwise neglected business, then return to her as quickly as he can. He leaves the note by her bedside, with a glass of water and a variety of snacks. Sometimes he returns to the glass and plate empty. Sometimes they're both full. Either way, the note is always gone when he returns.
What he doesn't know is that she keeps them. Every single one. They are all smoothed out and stacked neatly in her drawer. She stores them away much like an animal preparing for winter, so she is prepared when the world gets dark and cold again. She reads them when the monster wakes along with her and tries to tell her lies, when he's not there but his presence is. She is loved, she is cared for, she is not alone.
I love you, please come home soon
There are days where he can't think straight. When real and not real, past and present, old and new become muddied in his head. But when they do, she's there. She gives him something to hold onto when the ground of his reality starts to shake. She weaves careful fingers through his hair and gentle melodies into the air around him.
She hates it when he hides, but she understands. Understands that some days he needs to sort it out for himself. She's just as broken as he is, so she understands the desire to run, to hide, to face it alone. Only once does it get so bad that he returns to the mostly abandoned house across the lawn. The voices tell him he will hurt her, she will decieve him, someone will hurt him. And he fights them off, though he hates for her to see him like that. So he hides. But she's just as stubborn as him, too. She lets him have his space, but she's never far. She waits on the porch, until the moon is high and her eyelids are heavy. And she would stay there all night, but he'd never forgive her. No, he'd never forgive himself. So she slips in on practiced, silent feet. She finds him in an armchair, surrounded by paintings, asleep on his guard. She tucks a blanket around him. Presses a kiss to his head. Leaves a note scribbled on a corner of scrap paper, so he knows she was here, and that she did no harm, and that she misses him.
What she doesn't know is that he cries when he wakes up. He traces the letters of the word home with the tip of his finger. He mourns the fact that this place never felt like that, and he bemoans that he is not in the arms of the only place that ever has. When the tears dry, he carries himself across the lawn, into their house, and into her arms. She's half asleep, but she still wraps her arms around him and burrows her face into his chest. In that moment he knows if he hid from her a hundred times, she would welcome him home a hundred and one. He is loved, he is cared for, he is not alone.
