What do you do when the man you thought was least sentimental gives you a scrapbook that he’s worked painstakingly on to prove that he’s actually the most sentimental man you’ve ever known?
Don’t soften. Don’t soften.
That mantra echoes in my mind as my trembling hand lifts the card resting before a photo of us. I stare, stunned that he owns a memory I never knew existed. It must be a candid, snapped by a friend, because I have no recollection of it. We’re at the lake and I’m sprawled on my back, gazing up at him with a gentle look, while Alek hovers above me, grinning wide. My arm curls around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair. Even through my tears, the happiness in that moment is undeniable.
I sniffle and tear my gaze away, lifting the card’s flap with my thumb. The soft periwinkle hue washes over me, a gentle balm for my unraveling heart.
See me, seeing you.
Four words.
That’s all he’s written on this card, but his meaning is clear. This scrapbook is meant for me to see him and our relationship through his eyes.
My fingers roam the black-and-silver cover, reading every clumsy detail he’s added. Stickers, hasty quotes, scattered flourishes, each shouting rookie crafter, yet the intention burns through every choice.
Its whole vibe is ‘a guy who tried’ and I love absolutely everything about it.
When I open the cover, I’m greeted with a yellow sheet with an F. Scott Fitzgerald quote that says, “You’re the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known—and even that is an understatement.”
I bite the corner of my lip, wrestling down the smile threatening to break free.
Don’t soften. Don’t soften.
As I turn each page, my fingers brush over the relics he’s saved from our three years together. Some are so small, so seemingly trivial, I never imagined he’d keep them.
A gum wrapper from our second date because I wouldn’t let him kiss me after dinner until I had him stop and get a pack so I’d have fresh breath.
A hair tie he made me out of a strip from one of his t-shirts when we broke down on the side of the road, and he was working on fixing whatever was wrong with his car.
A giggle bubbles up when I find the page covered in Post-it notes, each one a cheesy pick-up line I once scattered for him to find.
?Well, hey there! I sure don’t need a spoonful of sugar to swallow you.
?If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.
?Sorry to bother you, but—do you have room for an extra tongue in your mouth?
?My doctor said I lack vitamin D. Can you help give it to me?
?I must be a beaver because I’m dying for your wood.
?I’ll show you my secret passage, but only if you solemnly swear that you’re up to no good.
?Pull my hair like Anakin would.
?Do you like Santa’s laugh? Because I want to be your ho-ho-ho.
?Are you a campfire? Because you are hot, and I want s’more!
?Dude, those pants look terrible on you. Please take them off.
?I would take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring your own snacks.
?If you were a Transformer, you would be Optimus Fine.
I can hardly believe he saved them all. When did I stop leaving these notes? I can’t even recall. Did he ever notice their absence?
A note falls out when I turn the page.
