Every morning when I get up, his dirty plates are arranged neatly in the dishwasher. The sink is clean, and there’s hardly a trace of him to be found. The only sign he’s been there is a different sticky note on the counter. Always in the same place—right by the stove—and always with the same message: a thank you scribbled in his messy handwriting. With a little smiley face in the bottom right corner. It’s a silly thing. Something I wouldn’t usually notice, and I don’t know why it makes me laugh when I’m groggy and sleep-deprived. But it does.
