It’s not familiar in the way handwriting should be—it’s familiar in the way he is. Something made just for me.
I swallow hard and shut the door with a quiet click.
Back on the couch, I settle cross-legged and stare at the parcel in my lap for a few seconds too long. The twine feels soft from handling, the knot tight but not impossible. My fingers tremble as I loosen it and peel the paper back.
Inside is a collage—layered and chaotic, but deliberate.
Photographs.
Some of me.
Some of the city.
One is from inside the roller rink—me lacing up my skates with a distracted frown. Another shows me laughing with Daisy, the image blurred at the edges but vibrant in the center, as if he only cared about catching the emotion.
Beneath those are sketches. Messy. Beautiful. His hand traced my cheekbones in charcoal. Captured the tilt of my head, the way my lips part when I laugh, the fall of my hair over my shoulder.
It’s intimate in a way that makes my breath hitch.
Pressed flowers lie between the photos—crushed pink roses, dried violets. My fingers tremble as I touch them, delicate and curling with age.
Then I see the journal page. Torn at the edges. The ink slightly smudged, giving away the fact that maybe his hand shook as he wrote.
I don’t know the handwriting. But I know him.
This is Finn.
There’s no signature. No explanation. Just raw, splintered emotion written in ink that makes my stomach clench.
I don’t know if you’ll read this. I’m not even sure if I should have sent it. But I needed to.
I watched them last night. The way they cared for you. The waythey held you as though you were fragile and precious and breakable in the best way.
You are.
I’m not angry. Not with them. Not even with you.
I just?—
I want to be one of them.
I want to be close enough to see the way your eyes flutter shut when someone touches you like they know what you need.
I want to know what makes you purr.
You don’t have to come now. But when you do? I’ll be here.
I’ll always be here.
My chest squeezes.
The collage. The flowers. The words.
It’s…a declaration. A quiet, obsessive, reverent plea to be seen. To be chosen.
My fingers curl around the edges of the paper, attempting to fold the moment small enough to hide in my pocket. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring. My thoughts are a mess, a kaleidoscope of heat and confusion.
A plate clinks on the kitchen counter, dragging me back to the present. I’m sure all three of them were watching me open the package. They’re three of the most observant men I’ve ever met.
