The sticky note situation

Jake left before I was awake this morning. He does that sometimes — early shift, out the door before six, barely a sound. I’ve gotten used to waking up to an empty apartment on those days. It’s fine. It’s just the schedule.

Except this morning there was a sticky note on the coffee maker. A yellow one. In his handwriting. It said ‘good morning’ and there was a tiny sun in the corner — like, a stick-sun, the kind a kid draws, with the little rays coming off it. That’s it. That was the whole note.

The sticky note situation

I stood there in my sleep shorts holding it for an embarrassing amount of time. I’ve been knee-deep in heritage archive coordination and Fourth of July prep and all the logistical noise that comes with having an actual life, and somehow this tiny yellow square just — stopped all of it. We’ve been doing this long enough that you’d think I’d be past the stage where a dumb sticky note sends me into feelings. And yet. There I am. Bare feet on the kitchen tile at seven in the morning, smiling at a piece of paper like an absolute disaster.

Evidence.

The note is still on the coffee maker. I’m leaving it there. Don’t @ me.