The glass is cold under my fingertips.
Outside, the city stretches awake. Cars, pigeons, some poor guy trying to wrangle a broken umbrella. The usual rhythm.
But there’s something off.
I take a moment to realise what it is.
There’s a note tucked under the door.
I stare at it.
Small. Folded. cream-coloured. Just resting there like it’s always been part of the morning.
My breath stills.
But it’s not panic that seizes me—it’s confusion.
Because Damien never uses paper. Not for me.
He’s digital. Photos. Texts. Recordings.
Ones and zeros, always. Never ink.
I walk toward the door slowly. Quietly.
Damien doesn’t notice.
The floor creaks once under my heel, and I pause. Wait. Listen.
Still nothing from him.
I crouch.
The note is plain. No name. No handwriting on the outside.
I glance over my shoulder.
Then, I pick it up.
I don’t open it.
Not yet.
Just stand.
The paper feels heavy between my fingers. Real in a way the rest of the morning doesn’t.
I run my thumb along the fold.
Still, I don’t open it.
I walk into the bedroom, close the door behind me, and sit on the edge of the bed.
And only then, with the curtain drawn and my breath shallow, do I unfold the note.
There’s just one sentence inside.
The thin, careful ink writing resembles printing but not quite.
