It began with a folded up square piece of paper on the kitchen counter. I was going to explain that I thought it was a note left by Ethan from his ever-important meetings but when I opened it, my breath was caught.
Don't forget breakfast. Now you're eating for two! It was a strong and deliberate handwriting—Ethan's. Simple message and a smile was forced. Two days later, the following one was in the book in which I read before going to sleep. I am fond of your laugh. You don't do it enough.
I carried that note in my warm chest, my shaking hands. Then I found the one in the draw that I had stored my maternity clothes in. Blue suits you. Increases the acuity of your eyes beyond your imagination.
Each note was a short one, but in all its honesty, and each note was one that felt like a piece of him he couldn't say out loud. I did not confront him regarding it, and I did not go straight to the point. I wanted him to do this, to let it be his reaching for me. However, one night when I went in to pour him tea, I saw him sitting at his desk with his pen in hand, a piece of paper resting on his desk.
He raised his gaze too soon, too like he'd was caught at a crime. I teased with him, leaning on the door frame, "You don't have to act like you're not doing another one. His lips did curve, but very lightly. "You shouldn't have seen it. I said, in soft voice, "But I did." "And… I like them, more than you know."
The resulting silence wasn't chilling. It was full, and rich with something that couldn't be said, and that hung between us like a thread. I didn't feel lonely in this house for the first time in weeks. Ethan was trying.
In his own quiet, imperfect way—he was reaching for me. And perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, I was recalling things from the past